I      IAXFI  EL 


•LEX     I HH I  Sill 


"  //e  sa£  silent  in  front  of  the  cabin-door,  with  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  hands  folded,  — a  picture  of  rest  and  contented 
meditation."  —  THANKSGIVING  JOE. 


CAMP  AND  CABIN: 


SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  TRAVEL 


THE    WEST. 


BY  ROSSITER  W.   RAYMOND, 

L.ATK    LT.   S.    COMMISSIONKH   OF   MINING    STATISTICS;    EDITOB 

"  KNOINEKKING  AND   MINING   JOUKNAL;"    AUTI1OB 

"MIMCS    OF  THE   AVJCST,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
FORDS,  HOWARD,   &  HULBERT. 

1880. 


COPYRIGHT,  1879, 
BY  ROSSITER  W.  RAYMOND. 


LOAN  STAGE 


it  Cm  r- 

Electrotyped  and  Printed 

By  Rand,  Avery,  &>  Company, 

117  Franklin  Street, 

Boston. 


|HE  sketches  collected  in  this  little  volume 
have  been  printed  in  various  periodicals 
within  the  last  eight  or  nine  years;  and 
the  reader  will  bear  this  in  mind  as  an  explanation 
of  the  fresh  enthusiasm  with  which  some  of  them 
speak  of  scenes  not  so  unfamiliar  to  the  reading  pub 
lic  now  as  when  these  papers  were  written.  This  is 
particularly  true  of  the  "  Sketches  of  the  Yellowstone 
Country,"  which  it  was  rny  privilege  to  traverse  in 
1871,  when  few  white  men  had  seen  its  beauties  and 
wonders. 

With  the  single  exception  of  "  The  Widow  Baker," 
the  contents  of  the  book  are  studies  of  character  and 
scenery  in  the  Far  West.  The  only  justification  I 
can  offer  for  including  a  New-England  story  in  such 
a  collection  is  the  fact  that  the  language  and  the 
influence  of  New  England  are  found  everywhere  in 
the  West,  and  that  nobody  objects  to  their  com 
pany. 

11.  W.  R. 
BROOKLYN,  N.Y.,  Dec.  10,  1879. 

140 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
THANKSGIVING  JOE  .        ....       ,       .       .       .       7 

AGAMEMNON      ...        .        .        .        .        ,        .      47 

I.  —  Young  Bullion    .        .        *•....        .        .47 

II.  —  Further  Acquaintance       .        .        ...      60 

III.  — The  Prodigal  Father          .'      ..       .        .        .71 

I V.  —  The  School-Teacher  .        .        .        .        .        .      81 

V.  —  Not  Miss  Mary  —  but  "quite  Contrairy  "       .      91 

VI.  —  Similia  Similibus  Curantur      .        .  .99 

WIDOW  BAKER         .      • .        .        .        .        .        .        .104 

I.  —  Squire  and  Deacon 104 

II.  —  The  Story  of  the  Bakers 110 

III.  —  Board  and  Lodging 117 

IV.  —  Susan  Peabody 124 

V.  — Jotham 129 

VI.  —  How  the  Widow  Interfered     .        ...    159 
WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE  .        .        .        ..153 

I.  — An  Exploring  Party 153 

II.  —  Up  the  Madison 162 

III.  —  March  and  Camp 168 

IV.  — Hot-Springs  and  Geysers          .        .        .        .177 
V.  —The  Lower  Geyser-Basin  of  the  Fire-Hole    .    186 

VI.  —  The  Upper  Geyser-Basin  of  the  Fire-Hole    .    193 

VII.  — Yellowstone  Lake  and  River   .        .        .        .201 

THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON  TERRITORY     .        .    208 

THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK  225 


CAMP 


CABIK 


THANKSGIVING   JOB. 
A    STORY    OF    THE    SAGE-BRUSH. 

llXACTLY  whereabouts  in  the  State  of  Ne 
vada  lies  the  now  depopulated  and  aban 
doned  district  once  kno\vn  to  its  numerous 
residents,  and  introduced  by  "  The  Reese 
River  Reveille"  to  fame,  as  Silver  Sheen,  I  shall  not 
reveal,  lest  some  enterprising  person  should  start  at 
once  to  find  it,  and  to  "  relocate  "  -  that  is  to  say, 
"jump"  —  the  extremely  valuable  claims  which  some 
of  my  friends  still  own  (and  hope  to  sell)  within  its 
borders.  Suffice  it  to  say,  therefore,  that  Silver  Sheen 
was  somewhere  between  Washoe  and  White  Pine,  and 
partook,  in  the  opinion  of  its  population,  of  the  favora 
ble  "  indications"  of  both  places.  Certainly  it  looked 
quite  as  promising  as  did  either  of  those  famously  pro 
ductive  mining-fields  before  their  treasures  had  been 
discovered.  But,  to  be  candid,  so  does  any  point  you 

7 


CAMP  AND   CA1UN. 

may  please  to  choose  in  that  vast  desert  basin  known 
as  "  the  sage-brush  country."  Everywhere  there  are 
the  same  broad,  arid  valleys,  in  which  feeble  moun 
tain  streams  lose  themselves  and  disappear  without 
gaining  any  goal ;  the  same  bunch-grass,  withered  and 
unpromising,  but  in  reality  nutritious,  —  a  sort  of 
standing  hay,  with  seeds  like  kernels  of  grain  held 
tightly  in  its  driecl-up  fingers  ;  the  same  bare,  weather- 
beaten  hills,  cleft  by  precipitous  canons  in  which  are 
hidden  stunted  plantations  of  plnon  and  cottonwood, 
and  along  the  sides  of  which,  after  snows  melt  in  the 
early  summer,  innumerable  flowers  adorn  the  desola 
tion  with  a  brief  glory;  the  same  dust-columns,  mys 
teriously  rising  in  hot  afternoons  from  the  surface  of 
the  plain,  and  whirling  in  slow  dances  like  tall,  slen 
der  genii  of  the  air;  the  same  exquisite  mirage, 
mocking  the  traveler  with  visions  of  rippling  lakes 
and  cool  bowery  islands,  where  in  reality  only  the 
alkali  flats  stretch  awray,  varied  by  an  occasional  clump 
of  gray  bushes ;  the  same  inevitable,  ubiquitous  sage 
brush,  always  old,  always  dusty,  always  wasting  its 
aromatic  fragrance  upon  heedless  breezes  or  scornful 
men;  the  white  sage,  small  and  silvery,  beloved  of 
cattle  ;  the  soft  blue  sky,  the  transparent  air  that 
brings  near  the  most  distant  horizon,  and  makes  the 
day's  long  journey  seem  in  prospect  but  an  hour's 
walk ;  the  magical  hues  of  brown  and  purple  that 
clothe  at  sunrise  and  sunset  the  mountain-side,  and 
the  rich  golden  shade  that  rests  upon  the  meadows 


THANKSGIVING  JOE. 

and  slopes  of  bunch-grass :  these  elements  are  found 
in  so  many  localities,  that  I  run  no  risk  of  exposing 
Silver  Sheen  to  the  invasion  of  "jumpers  "  when  I 
say  that  it  possessed  them  all. 

I  am  reasonably  safe,  moreover,  in  remarking  that 
the  district  was  richly  endowed  with  mineral  wealth. 
Who  ever  knew  of  a  mining-district  in  the  West  that 
was  not?  Of  course  it  had  a  "Mammoth  "  vein,  and 
a  "  Eureka,"  and  a  "  Crown  Point  No.  2,"  and  a 
"  Ruby,"  and  numerous  other  promising  deposits, 
carefully  baptized  with  names  of  good  augury.  Of 
course,  also,  there  was  a  grand  tunnel  scheme  for  pier 
cing  through  the  whole  mountain-range,  and  "  devel 
oping  its  inexhaustible  wealth ; "  and  a  stamp-mill 
(an  experimental  five-stamp  affair)  for  reducing  ores; 
and  of  course  the  ores  were  refractory,  and  wouldn't 
be  reduced  without  some  patent  process  yet  undis 
covered,  but  certain  to  be  discovered  if  "  capital " 
could  be  had;  and  of  course  there  was  a  weekly 
paper,  and  a  half-dozen  bar-rooms,  and  talk  of  a 
church.  So  far,  nobody  can  distinguish  Silver  Sheen 
from  many  another  district  in  similar  circumstances. 
The  driver  of  a  semi-weekly  stage  which  carried  the 
mail  from  Austin  to  all  these  districts  in  succession 
could  scarcely  have  told  the  camps  apart,  but  for  his 
personal  acquaintance  with  the  bar-tenders  and  their 
beverages,  and  with  the  peculiar  bad  piece  of  road 
that  each  canon  presented. 

But  Silver  Sheen  possessed  Thanksgiving  Joe,  and 


10  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

he  was  certainly  unique.  Individual  character  devel 
ops  eccentricity  much  more  easily  in  such  rough 
societies  than  under  the  restraints  and  convention 
alities  of  polite  life.  All  the  citizens  of  Silver  Sheen 
were  peculiar,  each  in  his  way,  and  each  without 
attracting  special  comment  upon  his  oddity.  Old 
Heinrich,  who  would  wear  a  red  bandana  in  place 
of  a  hat;  Sam  AVetherill,  who  regularly  put  on  a 
white  shirt  and  a  blue  swallow-tail  coat  with  brass 
buttons  -every  Sunday  morning;  Redhead  Pete,  who 
spent  all  his  earnings  in  bribing  Shoshone  Indians  to 
show  him  the  Lost  Silver  Mine,  —  a  mass  of  native 
silver,  concerning  which  everybody  knows  that  it 
exists,  and  nobody  knows  where,  —  these  gentlemen, 
and  a  host  of  others  who  squandered  at  poker  and 
monte  the  proceeds  of  their  labor  or  their  speculations, 
were  allowed  to  pursue  their  ways  without  ridicule, 
censure,  or  admiration.  Then  why  should  Thanks 
giving  Joe  be  regarded  as  singular? 

This  singularity  could  not  consist,  either,  in  the 
mystery  that  surrounded  his  previous  life.  As  Col. 
Gore  remarked  in  a  quiet  evening  gathering  at  the 
International,  "  The  past,  gentlemen,  —  I  say  it  with 
out  hesitation,  and  I  think  no  person  present  will 
differ :  if  so,  I  would  like  to  speak  further  with  that 
person,  —  the  past  belongs  to  the  individooal !  It  is 
sacred,  gentlemen,  sacred  !  " 

A  certain  portion  of  the  colonel's  past  had  been 
spent  in  sacred  seclusion  between  stone  walls ;  and 


THANKSGIVING  -JOE.  11 

there  were  not  a  few  among  his  auditors  who  had  their 
own  reasons  for  guarding  their  own  memories.  So 
no  questions  were  asked  by  anybody,  for  fear  of  ques 
tions  in  reply.  Everty  man's  career  was  held  to  have 
begun  when  he  first  "struck  into  the  sage-brush." 
For  a  new  district  must  be  populated  by  the  overflow 
from  older  ones,  and  it  is  the  scum  which  overflows; 
and  if  you  keep  stirring  it  up,  why,  nothing  will  ever 
settle.  I  fancy,  moreover,  that  there  is  in  this  rude 
tolerance  an  element  of  noble  feeling,  a  germ^f  char 
ity,  a  recognition  of  the  duty  of  giving  another  chance 
to  those  who,  "the  luck  being  against  them,"  have 
fallen  from  respectability,  even  so  far  as  the  humili 
ation  of  public  exposure.  Certainly  I  have  known 
some  instances  of  lives  once  wrecked  that  were  suc 
cessfully  reconstructed,  and  launched  again  upon  hon 
orable  voyages,  from  the  friendly  oblivion  of  such 
communities. 

Yet,  after  all,  Thanksgiving  Joe  had  appeared  in 
Silver  Sheen  in  a  manner  calculated  to  distinguish 
him,  even  in  that  adventurous  and  uninquisitive  soci 
ety.  For,  as  the  colonel  said  to  Mr.  Pickens  of  Chi 
cago,  when  he  pointed  out  to  that  gentleman,  the  morn 
ing  after  his  arrival,  the  cabin  of  Thanksgiving  Joe, 
high  up  the  canon,  half  a  mile  beyond  any  other,  "  lie 
never  came  to  Silver  Sheen  at  all,  sir:  Silver  Sheen 
came  to  him.  When  our  hardy  pioneers  first  entered 
this  secluded  but  immensely  endowed  region,  and 
penetrated  to  the  heart  of  its  argentiferous  belt,  there, 


12  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

sir,  prostrate  upon  the  outcrop  of  the  biggest  quartz- 
ledge  in  the  camp,  they  found  him  lying,  with  a  bullet 
in  his  shoulder,  and  —  and  a  fever  in  his  brain," 
added  the  colonel,  to  satisfy  his  ear  for  rhetoric. 

This  had,  in  truth,  been  the  introduction  of  Joe's  fel 
low-citizens  to  him.  While  he  was  still  unconscious, 
oscillating  between  life  and  death,  they  had  scoured 
the  neighborhood  to  find  the  villain  who  had  shot  him. 
It  must  have  been  his  "pardner ;  "  and  the  shot  had 
been  delivered  from  behind,  —  two  circumstances 
which  would  have  secured  short  shrift  for  the  culprit 
if  he  had  been  caught.  But  the  search  was  fruitless ; 
and  the  boys  returned  from  such  trivial  distractions 
to  the  serious  work  of  life.  The  district  had  to  be 
organized,  and  provided  with  a  name.  "  Murder 
Canon"  did  duty  for  a  few  weeks;  but  when  Col. 
Gore  made  his  appearance  it  was  changed,  after  an 
eloquent  speech  from  him,  to  "  Silver  Sheen."  Then 
"Veins  had  to  be  discovered,  and  claims  "  located," 
"recorded,"  and  "prospected."  Yet  Joe  was  not 
entirely  forgotten.  A  rough  cabin  was  constructed 
over  the  very  spot  where  he  had  beer  found:  in  this 
the  sick  man  was  made  rudely  comfortable  ;  and,  one 
at  a  time,  the  population  took  turns  in  watching  with 
him.  Moreover,  they  located  in  his  name;  and  set 
apart  for  him,  two  hundred  feet  of  the  "  ledge  "  on 
which  he  had  fallen,  and  "  which,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  colonel,  "he  had  recorded  with  his  blood." 

AH  this  had  happened  two  years  before  the  time 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  13 

at  which  my  story  is  going  —  by  and  by  —  to  begin. 
Joe  recovered  his  consciousness  after  a  week,  and 
his  strength  in  the  course  of  two  months.  The  man 
who  was  with  him  wrhen  he  first  awoke  in  his  right 
mind,  from  the  critical  sleep  that  denoted  the  turning 
of  the  fever,  remarked  in  describing  the  scene  that 
he  "  never  see  a  feller  so  grateful  for  nothin'  at  all. 
Thanked  me  for  a  drink  o'  water's  if  it'd  been  a 
barrel  o'  whiskey.  Asked  me  whar  he  was,  'n  I  told 
him  ;  'n  how  he  came  thar,  'n  I  told  him ;  'n  whether 
anybody  was  with  him,  'n  I  told  him  nary  one  ;  'n  I 
jest  informed  him  what  a  kiting  old  hunt  we  had  for 
the  feller  as  drawed  on  jhim  f'm  behind,  'n  how  mad 
we  was  not  to  git  a  holt  on  him  ;  and  says  he, '  Thank 
God !  '  and  goes  to  sleep  again  like  a  baby." 

The  next  man  on  watch  had  a  few  additional  par 
ticulars  to  report.  The  patient  had  awaked  again  at 
midnight,  and  inquired  after  a  buckskin  money-belt, 
•which,  having  been  found  by  his  side  apparently 
empty  when  he  was  first  discovered,  had  been  kept 
rather  by  accident  than  design,  and  lay  at  that  mo 
ment  neglected  on  the  floor  in  a  corner  of  the  cabin. 
The  belt  wras  brought  to  him  ;  and  he  lifted  it  feebly, 
without  any  expression  of  surprise  at  its  lightness,  ran 
his  fingers  along  the  pliant  leather  to  the  end,  and 
then  with  a  sudden  smile  said,  "  Thank  God  !  "  and 
dropped  to  sleep  again.  The  watcher,  unaccustomed 
to  hear  such  expressions  of  gratitude  from  men  whose 
money-belts  had  been  rifled  (for  this  W7as  the  univer- 


14  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

sal  verdict  with  regard  to  Joe's  case),  had  subsequent 
ly  examined  the  belt,  and  found  in  it  d  folded  paper, 
bearing  these  words  in  a  handwriting  which  might 
have  been  that  of  a  woman,  —  but  on  this  point  the 
witness,  being  no  expert,  and  a  little  off  practice  be 
sides,  could  not  be  positive  :  — 

"  Let  us  come  before  His  presence  with  thanksgiving;  " 

and  below  them  a  date  (time  but  no  place  being 
given)  and  a  single  initial  J.  The  date  was  five  years 
old.  lie  had  spelled  out  the  motto,  and  returned  the 
paper  to  its  resting-place,  with  a  half-superstitious 
feeling  that  it  was  an  amulet  of  some  sort.  A  simi 
lar  impression  prevailed  among  those  who  heard  of 
it ;  and  from  that  day  the  convalescent  was  called 
Thanksgiving  Joe,  a  title  which  he  accepted  without 
protest  or  inquiry.  The  "  Joe  "  was  a  happy  expan 
sion  of  the  J  in  the  secret  paper;  and,  as  the  recipient 
of  the  name  answered  when  thus  addressed,  it  served 
all  the  purposes  of  a  complete  and  perfect  title.  To 
a  visitor  who  once  asked  him  if  that  were  his  real 
name,  he  replied  simply,  "  It  is  my  given  name  ;"  and 
curiosity  received  no  further  satisfaction. 

AVhen  Joe  got  well  enough  to  work,  he  began  as  a 
day-laborer  for  another  miner  ;  for  in  all  the  new  dis 
tricts  there  are  almost  from  the  beginning  a  few  at 
least  who  bring  some  money  with  them,  which  they 
can  employ  in  the  more  ra,pid  development  of  the 
claims  they  select;  and  by  working  for  these  few  at 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  15 

high  rates  of  wages  the  others  earn  the  funds  neces 
sary  for  the  purchase  of  food  and  clothing  to  supply 
them  while  they  lay  open  their  own  selected  ground. 
Like  all  the  miners  in  Silver  Sheen,  Joe  did  a  good 
day's  work  for  a  day's  wages.  Laziness  was  not  the 
besetting  sin  of  the  boys,  except,  perhaps,  on  occa 
sions  when  they  really  laid  themselves  out  to  be  lazy. 
Then  even  Broadway  could  not  turn  out  an  equal 
number  of  more  perfectly  listless  and  vacuous  loafers. 
At  other  times  that  sort  of  thing  was  left  mainly  to 
Col.  Gore,  whose  business  was  loafing  as  a  sort  of 
master  of  ceremonies  to  the  bar-room  of  the  Interna 
tional,  in  the  profits  of  which  he  had  a  share. 

But  Thanksgiving  Joe  had  his  own  way  of  loafing. 
Nobody  was  more  faithful  than  he  with  pick  or  sledge 
while  the  "shift"  lasted;  but  when  work  was  done 
he  would  go  off  up  the  canon  alone  to  his  solitary 
cabin,  and  presently  would  be  seen  the  slender  smoke 
of  his  fire  as  he  fried  his  bacon  and  boiled  his  coffee. 
A  little  later  Joe  himself  would  be  visible  against  the 
clear  yellowing  sky,  as  he  sat  silent  in  front  of  the 
cabin-door,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands 
placidly  folded,  a  picture  of  rest  and  contented  medi 
tation.  In  any  other  state  of  society  he  would  have 
been  a  strange  figure.  His  hair  and  beard  were  long 
and  snow-white,  his  form  was  slightly  bent ;  but  those 
signs  of  age  were  merely  the  results  of  his  fever,  and 
were  moreover  contradicted  by  the  brightness  of  his 
dark  eyes,  and  the  great  strength  which  he  occasion- 


16  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

ally  exhibited.  When  the  drift  of  the  Desdemona 
caved  in,  and  the  day-shift  were  all  caught  in  the 
timbers,  it  was  Joe  who  held  up  the  lagging  in  the 
broken  ground  till  the  boys  got  a  stull  wedged  under 
it,  and  crawled  out  safe  and  sound.  And  when  the 
memorable  cloud-burst  of  'G9  took  place  on  the  sum 
mit  above  Silver  Sheen,  and  twenty  feet  of  water 
came  booming  down  the  canon,  it  was  Joe  who  waded 
in  the  nick  of  time  to  the  shebang  where  Sam  "VVeth- 
erill  lay  helpless  with  rheumatism  (the  result,  by  the 
way,  of  too  much  white  shirt  on  an.  inclement  Sun 
day),  and  brought  him  bodily,  mattress,  vicuna  blan 
ket,  and  all,  to  the  dry  bank.  In  short,  Thanksgiving 
Joe  was  looked  upon  by  his  comrades  as  a  sort  of 
tutelary  demi-god,  a  Hercules  or  Hiawatha,  dwelling 
somewhat  apart,  but  ready  to  descend  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  perform  deeds  of  deliverance  for  the 
dwellers  in  the  land  below. 

As  they  had  taken  turns  watching  with  him  while 
he  was  ill,  so  now  they  took  turns  in  visiting  him  ;  for 
it  was  soon  discovered  that  before  two  or  three,  listen 
ers  he  was  prone  to  silence,  but  when  a  single  friend 
approached  him  sympathetically  he  would  talk  with  a 
simple,  homely  elevation  of  spirit  that  made  him  seem 
like  a  messenger  from  another  country.  "  He  ain't 
our  kind  exactly,"  the  boys  concluded;  "but  he's  a 
better  kind,  and  no  shenannigan  about  him  either." 
("  Shenannigan  "  is  the  miner's  term  for  humbug.) 
So  they  fell  into  the  habit  of  strolling  up  the  canon, 
one  at  a  time,  to  hear  Joe  talk. 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  17 

The  nickname  they  had  given  him  grew  more  and 
more  appropriate  as  they  learned  to  know  him  better ; 
for  the  characteristic  feature  of  his  moods  and  words 
was  a  marvelous  perpetual  gratitude.  "  No :  he  don't 
look  on  the  bright  side  neither,"  replied  Sam  Wether- 
ill  one  day,  to  somebody's  comment  upon  one  of  Joe's 
sayings  :  "  things  don't  have  nary  bright  side  nor  dark 
side  to  him.  Told  me  that  himself.  Says  he,  *  When 
things  is  transparent,  it's  bright  o'  both  sides/  says 
he,  'purvided  there's  a  light  on  t'other;'"  which 
somewhat  distorted  version  of  Joe's  apothegm  con 
veyed  well  enough  the  meaning  that  was  meant  to 
shine  through  it. 

With  his  first  savings  Joe  had  fitted -himself  out  for 
a  period  of  labor  on  his  own  hook  at  the  Mammoth 
vein,  on  which,  by  common  consent,  he  held  the  cen 
tral  claim.  But  the  Mammoth,  like  many  another 
huge  quartz  outcrop  in  that  country,  seemed  to  consist 
of  a  maximum  of  barren  gangue  and  a  minimum  of 
valuable  ore.  Black  specks  thpre  were  through  the 
mass,  and  now  and  then  a  considerable  body  of  some 
unknown  mineral,  over  which  the  most  experienced 
miners  shook  their  heads,  and  said  it  was  "  no  doubt 
this  yer  base  metal,  and  wouldn't  amalgamate  worth 
a  red."  Joe  toiled  patiently  on,  however,  until  he  had 
sunk  his  prospecting  shaft,  without  aid  from  any  otlier 
person,  to  the  depth  of  twelve  feet,  and  had  extracted 
from  it  a  dozen  tons  of  rock,  out  of  which  a  couple  of 
tons  of  ore  were,  with  much  hammering  and  overhaul- 


18  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

ing,  selected.  By  this  time  the  little  five-stamp  mill 
had  been  erected  in  the  camp  ;  and  to  this  establish 
ment  Joe  packed  a  ton  of  his  selected  ore,  to  have  it 
"  worked  "  as  a  test.  In  a  few  days  a  stylish  certifi 
cate  was  returned  to  him,  from  which  it  appeared  that 
his  ore  had  yielded  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  while 
the  charge  for  operating  upon  it  was  twenty-five  dol 
lars.  It  took  the  last  coin  in  his  leather  belt  to  pay 
the  bill ;  but  he  paid  it  like  a  man,  and  walked 
straight  back  to  the  Desdemona,  where  they  were 
giad  enough  to  take  him  again  into  the  day-shift. 

That  evening  Sam  Wetherill  found  him  smoking 
his  pipe  as  usual  in  front  of  the  cabin.  This  edifice, 
by  the  way,  deserves  a  brief  description.  It  was  con 
structed  of  piilon  (nut-pine)  stems,  sharpened  at  the 
lower  end,  and  driven  into  the  rocky  debris,  which  took, 
in  that  locality,  the  place  of  soil.  Three  sides  of  the 
single  apartment  constituting  the  dwelling  were  thus 
inclosed.  In  one  of  them  a  door  was  constructed  by 
the  simple  process  of  leaving  out  three  or  four  stakes. 
The  fourth  side,  or  back,  was  formed  by  the  project 
ing  outcrop  of  the  "  Mammoth  Ledge,"  itself;  and 
Joe,  having  more  room  than  he  needed  for  his  bunk 
and  stool,  and  the  shelf  which  served  him  as  a  table, 
had  carried  on  his  mining  operations  in  the  place 
where  he  slept  and  ate,  gradually  accumulating  a  heap 
of  waste  rock,  which  he  piled  up  into  a  heavy  parti 
tion  between  the  bedroom  and  the  mine.  In  this  way 
the  mine,  which  began  by  being  in  doors,  gradually 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  1(J 

found  itself  out  doors,  and  caused  no  further  inconven 
ience  to  the  house  than  might  result  from  the  drop 
ping,  after  a  blast,  of  a  stray  rock  through  the  roof. 
But  nobody  was  inside  at  such  times  ;  and  the  damage 
was  easily  repaired  with  a  little  sage-brush  and  adobs 
clay,  the  latter  being,  in  fact,  the  universally  useful 
material  with  which 'all  leaks  in  Silver  Sheen  were 
stopped  against  wind  and  weather. 

It  was  before  this  mud-and-stockade  villa  that  Sam 
AVetherill  found  Thanksgiving  Joe,  after  his  first  day 
of  renewed  experience  in  the  Desdemona.  Sam's 
way  of  meeting  such  a  disappointment  as  he  thought 
Joe  had  experienced  would  have  been  to  put  on  that 
white  shirt  and  that  blue  dress-coat,  and  drown  his 
sorrows  in  a  majestic  spree  at  the  International;  but, 
feeling  instinctively  that  this  remedy  would  not  suit 
his  friend,  he  came  up  to  show  his  sympathy  in  the 
way  of  words  at  least,  not  without  a  shade  of  secret 
satisfaction  that  Joe  had  finally  struck  a  piece  of  ill 
fortune,  over  which  even  he  could  scarcely  give 
thanks. 

"  A  little  down  on  yer  luck,  old  man?  "  was  his  con- 
dolorous  greeting.  "  Wai  now,  it  was  too  bad  for 
th  is  yer  Mammoth  Ledge  to  go  back  on  yer  that  way ! 
That  thar  base  metal  don't  do  nothin'  in  the  pans  but 
jest  flour  the  quick,  'n  slum  it  all  up.1  But  you  jest 
hold  up  your  head,  old  man,  'n  get  a  pardner,  'n  pros- 

1  Granulate  the  quicksilver  used  in  amalgamation,  and  render  it 
foul. 


20  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

pect  around  a  little.  'S  no  good,  this  yer  coyotin' 
alone,1  'n  backin'  out  o'  yer  hole  every  time  you  -want 
a  drink  o'  water.  'F  I  hadn't  gone  in  with  Dutch 
Ileinrich,  on  the  Bismarck  Extension,  —  almighty  big 
thing  too, — I'd  like  to  be  yer  pardner  myself:  'n 
thar's  Redhead  Pete,  he's  a  good  hand  to  work,  's 
long's  he  does  work ;  but  he's  off  agin  arter  that  lost 
silver  mine, — somebody  '11  find  that  thar  mine  some  o' 
these  days;  but  it  won't  be  Pete.  Dutchy  says  there's 
no  end  o'  stories  about  sich  mines  in  his  country,  and 
nobody  finds  'em  on  purpose.  Some  galoot  out  after 
jackass-rabbits,  or  sage-hens,  or  mountain-sheep,  jest 
accidentally  pulls  up  a  bush,  or  sets  down  on  a  rock, 
'n  happens  to  look  between  his  boots,  'n  thar's  a 
chunk  o'  the  clear  bullion  950  fine.  But  Pete  — 
he'll  never  find  nothin'  but  Injun  wicky-ups.2  How 
ever,  you  won't  have  no  trouble  about  a  pardner. 
Anybody'll  be  glad  to  get  you,  'n  set  you  up  in 
bacon  and  beans  to  start  on  too.  So  you  jest  shake 
yourself,  old  man,  'n  cheer  up.  It's  all  fer  the  best, 
you  know — 'f  yer  able  to  see  it  in  that  light." 

Sam  was  very  well  satisfied  with  the  rate  at  which 
he  was  getting  on  in  his  new  role  of  messenger  of 
consolation ;  but,  as  ho  afterwards  expressed  it,  his 
"  idees  all  leaked  out "  of  him  when  Thanksgiving 

1  Digging  like  a  coyote,  or  prairie-fox. 

2  The  slight  temporary  shelter  of  brush,  under  which  the  Nevada 
Indians  sleep,  not  worthy  to  he  compared  with  the  wigwams  and 
lodges  of  the  stronger  and  richer  tribes  of  the  North. 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  21 

Joe  took  liis  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  said  reflec 
tively,  — 

"  There  isn't  any  other  light,  is  there?  " 

"Wai,  no,"  replied  Sam  in  a  dubious  way,  and 
added,  with  evident  relief,  as  if  he  had  found  a  solu 
tion,  "not  ef  you  see  it  in  that  light." 

"Exactly,"  continued  Joe.  "Light  is  light;  and 
there's  only  one  kind,  thank  God  !  " 

16  An'  may  I  be  —  if  you  ain't  the  "  — 

(These  dashes  are  not  my  device  for  indicating 
Sam's  ready  profanity.  They  show  where  that  fluent 
blasphemer  actually  paused  and  choked,  leaving  a 
significant  silence.  For  Joe's  thanksgiving  carried  a 
sort  of  echo,  in  the  presence  of  which  a  man  couldn't 
start  right  oft',  and  invoke  heaven  or  hell  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Moreover,  Sam's  choking  attracted 
his  own  attention  as  a  novel  phenomenon.  He 
stopped  for  a  moment,  pondered  it,  and  '•  broke  out  in 
a  new  spot  "  as  follows)  :  — 

"The  boys  in  this  yer  camp  mention  —  Him,  you 
know"  —  here  Sam  took  off  his  hat,  and  replaced  it 
with  the  air  of  having  done  the  handsome  thing  for 
once  in  his  life  — "  toPble  frequent  and  free ;  but  I 
don't  jest  recall  any  onreas'nable  number  of  'em  as 
lays  'emselves  out  to  thank  him.  They  ain't  heavy 
on  the  thank !  They  jest  let  the  parsons  do  that  by 
contract,  'n  they  take  it  mighty  easy,  — only  one  shift 
a  week,  'n  singlehand  drillin'  at  that.  But  you  do 
the  thankin'  fur  the  crowd.  Not  that  anybody's  got 


22  CAMP  AND   CA1JIN. 

any  'Ijcction;  only,  when  you  take  to  thankin' over 
them  mill-returns,  it  might  sort  o'  seem  to  any  feller 
that  didn't  know  ycr  ways,  as  if  you  was  p'raps  rub- 
bin'  it  in  a  trifle, — playing  off  on  us,  you  know. 
Now,  you  can't  be  glad  o'  that  thar  base  metal,  you 
know:  it's  agin  reason." 

';I  didn't  say  I  was  glad,"  replied  Joe  imperturba- 
bly,  watching  the  long  shadows  from  the  summit  as 
they  reached  down  like  fingers,  and  clasped  the  settle 
ment  in  the  canon.  "  I  am  thankful  now  ;  and  I  expect 
to  be  glad." 

Sam  seated  himself  by  his  paradoxical  friend,  like 
one  who  was  bound  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  a  mystery. 

"  Go  easy,"  said  he :  "  I  ain't  used  to  the  road, 
but  I'm  bound  to  know  what  you're  drivin'  fur.  Now, 
let's  locate  our  discovery  stake,  'n  take  our  bearin's. 
You  don't  handle  pick  'n  sledge  jest  fur  amusement, 
or  yer  shattered  constitution.  What  do  you  figger  on, 
-town-lots,  or  rich  quartz,  or  what  'n  thundery  " 

"  Patience  !  "  said  Joe. 

Sam  Wetherill  swallowed  the  first  word  that  came 
to  his  lips,  and  sat  in  silence  for  a  while,  trying  to  get 
up  a  substitute  less  objectionable,  and  equally  expres 
sive  of  his  feeling.  But  the  vocabulary  of  ejacula 
tions  is  small  at  best,  and  the  habit  of  profanity  nar 
rows  it  still  further.  Nobody  is  so  hopelessly  stuck 
for  a  word  as  the  man  who  suddenly  suppresses  a  con 
venient  oath.  So  Mr.  Wetherill,  in  despair,  whistled 
softly  to  himself  a  bar  of  "My  name  it  is  Joe  Bowers," 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  23 

and  then,  looking  up,  remarked,  "  Thar's  a  good  pros 
pect  for  that.  Putty  much  every  tiling  that  happens  '11 
assay  well  enough,  'n  yield  rich  in  the  pans  too,  ef  all 
you  want  to  git  out  of  it  is  patience,  and  not  bullion." 
u  Yes,"  said  Joe  :  "all  things  work  together." 
"Well,  I  give  it  up,"  replied  Sam.  "All  I  got  to 
say  is,  you  do.  as  I  tell  you,  'n  git  yerself  a  pardner. 
When  you  'n  him  work  together,  as  you  say,  I  hope 
you'll  strike  something  that  pays  better  'n  patience  — 
though  I  expect  that  pays  too,  in  the  long-run,  when  a 
fellow  comes  to  the  last  big  clean-up."  And  *he  hon 
est  miner,  stepping  down  the  zigzag  trail  to  the  canon, 
disappeared  in  the  gathering  shadows.  , 

Thanksgiving  Joe  continued  for  a  month  his  quiet 
and  regular  life ;  then  he  took  a  partner  after  a  fasli- 
ion  which  rendered  this  natural  and  advisable  step 
one  of  the  most  surprising  of  the  many  unusual  fea 
tures  of  his  career  in  Silver  Sheen.  Everybody  said 
he'd  "  be  blowed,"  when  he  first  heard  of  it ;  and  about 
half  the  camp  bet  two  to  one  with  the  other  half  that 
it  wasn't  true,  the  takers  being  secretly  of  that  opin 
ion  themselves,  but  accepting  the  odds  just  to  make 
things  lively.  A  very  positive  skeptic  (no  people  are 
so  positive,  by  the  way,  as  those  who  assume  the  neg 
ative)  went  so  far,  on  being  assured  of  the  circum 
stance  by  Joe  himself,  as  to  offer  to  put  up  five  dollars 
that  Joe  was  mistaken.  And  Col.  Gore,  scarcely  ever 
at  a  loss  for  words,  was  fairly  staggered  to  express 
what  at  last  ho  called  the  "  preposterosity "  of  the 


24  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

story.  For,  according-  to  the  statements  of  the  par 
ties  concerned,  this  meekest,  mildest,  quietest,  and 
thankfullest  of  men  had  selected,  out  of  a  camp  full 
of  friends,  the  only  man  who  was  not  his  friend,  — 
Bill  Hazard,  the  new  hand  on  the  night-shift  at  the 
Desdemona:  a  fellow  who  was  set  down  as  a  "rough," 
and  quietly  let  alone.  If  anybody  —  even  Joe  —  had 
killed  him,  it  would  have  been  reckoned  nothing  as 
tonishing;  and  the  presumption  would  have  been 
strong,  in  the  absence  of  evidence,  that  "  Bill  must 
'a'  dra^d  on  the  other  feller  first."  But  that  any 
one  not  himself  a  "rough"  should  join  hands  with 
Bill  for  any  honest  purpose  was  amazing  beyond 
explanation. 

Yet  Mr.  William  Hazard  bore  an  appearance  which 
strangely  belied  his  reputation.  Ho  was  handsome 
almost  to  effeminacy,  with  a  smooth,  pale-dark  beauty 
which  neither  sun  nor  wind  seemed  io  affect.  But 
the  delicacy  of  his  face  was  striking  at  a  distance 
only :  upon  a  closer  view  it  was  perceived  to  bear  the 
nameless  shadow  of  evil  passions,  —  a  soft  face  grown 
hard.  But  some  things  distinguished  Bill  Hazard 
from  his  class.  He  did  not  drink,  — that  was  not  so 
strange  :  many  of  these  men  are  practically  teetotal 
ers  ;  but  they  usually  abstain  from  stimulants  because 
they  are  gamblers,  and  wish  to  be,  under  all  cir 
cumstances,  masters  of  themselves ;  whereas  Hazard 
did  not  play  cards,  —  and,  strangest  of  all,  he  never 
indulged  in  that  cheap  vice,  which,  since  it  affecte 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  25 

directly  neither  the  personal  efficiency  of  the  individ 
ual,  nor  the  property  interests  of  the  community,  is 
apt  to  be  universally  allowed  and  practiced  in  rude 
settlements:  I  mean  profanity,  "the  only  thing,"  as 
Sam  Wetherill  once  said  (after  he  had  given  it  up, 
by  the  way,  "swore  off"),  —  "the  only  thing  that  a 
real  poor  sinner  could  git  cheap." 

This  freedom  from  all  vices  was  one  great  element 
that  helped  to  make  Bill  Hazard  intolerable  to  his 
companions.  Their  instincts  read  clearly  the  princi 
ple  which  they  could  not  have  put  in  words,  that  true 
goodness  of  nature  involves  good  nature.  Perhaps 
Sam,  after  all,  expressed  it  philosophically  when  he 
said,  "  These  yer  bad  habits  are  the  devil's  contriv 
ances,  you  bet ;  'n  he  catches  many  a  poor  feller's  soul 
that  never  meant  no  harm.  But  I've  knowed  fellers 
to  strike  it  rich,  'n  make  a  home  stake,  'n  just  take 
their  Wells  Fargo  drafts,  'n  git  for  the  East,  'n.  hunt 
up  their  old  folks,  or  mebbe  their  wives  ?n  young  uns, 
'n.  leave  off  their  liquor,  'n  never  touch  a  card  —  why, 
ef  you'd  ask  'em  to  *  ante  up,'  they  wouldn't  know 
what  you  meant;  '11  all  these  yer  devil's  traps  was 
clean  busted  for  them.  But  when  you  clap  your  eyes 
on  one  of  them  smooth  fellers  like  Bill  Hazard,  's 
hard  'n  's  barren's  cap-rock,  you  don't  want  no  further 
news  about  him.  The  devil's  in  him:  he  don't  go 
for  to  waste  no  bad  habits  on  a  sure  thing  like  that." 

No,  Sam  was  not  quite  correct.  He  overlooked  a 
deeper-lying  truth.  The  vices  that  brutalize  men  are 


26  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

dead  weights  that  hang  upon  them  for  ever  :  no  euro 
can  enable  him  to  walk  in  the  full,  erect  stature  of 
manhood  who  has  bent  earthward  for  years  under 
such  burdens.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  souls  may 
be  hardened  by  malign  passion,  which,  nevertheless, 
being  smitten  aright,  shall  suddenly  be  transformed, 
and  Lucifer  become  again  the  Son  of  the  Morning. 
Hatred,  akin  to  love,  has  somewhat  of  love's  preserv 
ing  power.  Jt  may  ward  off  meaner  fiends ;  and 
though  its  condor  talons,  and  dark,  brooding  wings 
are  surely  fatal  in  the  end  to  its  helpless  captive,  yet, 
if  frightened  from  its  nest  in  time,  it  may  soar 
gloomily  away,  to  return  no  more,  and  leave  behind 
the  rescued  soul  like  a  child  unharmed. 

Thanksgiving  Joe,  replying  to  the  remark  of  Sam 
Wetherill  above  quoted,  put  the  argument  in  a  home 
lier  way :  — 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Sam:  it  is  a  good  deal 
like  sickness.  When  I  had  my  fever,  I  should  never 
have  pulled  through  unless  I  had  been  helped  by  my 
good  constitution.  A  man  may  have  one  thing  pretty 
bad,  and  get  over  it ;  but,  if  he  has  too  many  things 
ailing  him  at  once,  it's  a  poor  show  for  the  doctors. 
Now,  if  Will  was  only  cured  of  the  one  thing  that 
troubles  him,  I  think  he  would  be  a  pretty  healthy 
man;  whereas  you  boys,  if  you  don't  look  out,  will 
get  yourselves  tangled  up  with  so  many  diseases,  that 
your  moral  constitutions  will  be  just  disintegrated, 
like  any  old  outcrop,  and  nothing  will  take  hold  of 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  27 

you.  And  thank  God  ! "  added  Joe  softly,  half  to 
himself,  "  I  believe  I  can  cure  him." 

Sam  was  surprised  to  hear  the  new  partner  called 
"Will,"  —  a  form  of  his  name  which  no  one  else  in 
the  camp  employed.  It  argued  even  affection  for 
him ;  being  as  far  removed  from  the  ceremonious 
"Mr.,"  on  one  hand,  as  from  the  "BillV  of  mere  ordi 
nary  acquaintanceship,  on  the  other.  But  he  made 
no  comment,  and  presently  sauntered  homeward,  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  Thanksgiving  Joe  was  "too 
good  for  this  yer  style  o'  thing,"  and  would  certainly 
get  into  trouble  with  his  kind  heart  and  foggy  head, 
if  some  friend  without  too  tender  a  conscience  did  not 
stand  between  him  and  the  perilous  results  of  his 
unsuspicious  kindness.  The  conclusion  of  this  train 
of  thought  was  a  resolve  to  "keep  an  eye  on  that 
Hazard ;  'n  if  he  tried  any  games  on  Joe,  jest  put  a 
hole  in  him." 

This  was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the  part 
nership  had  been  formed.  It  had  been  negotiated  at 
sunrise,  as  the  clay-shift  going  into  the  Desdernona 
met  the  night-shift  coming  out.  Bill  Hazard,  coming 
out  of  the  mine,  looked  up,  as  if  drawn  by  a  strange, 
horrid  fascination,  to  the  long  white  outcrop  of  the 
Mammoth  vein,  that  caught  the  first  tints  of  day,  and 
stood  out  clearly  over  the  dimness  of  the  deep  canon. 
Then  he  turned  away  with  set  teeth,  as  if  the  sight 
both  pained  and  angered  him,  and,  as  he  turned,  felt 
on  his  shoulder  the  hand  of  Thanksgiving  Joe,  whose 


28  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

face  was  moved  as  if  with  the  emotion  of  a  sudden 
recognition.  Hazard  glanced  at  him  carelessly,  and 
started  to  pass  on.  But  Joe  detained  him,  and  said 
simply,  — 

"  I  want  a  partner,  and  I  must  have  you.  There's 
my  place,  yonder,  on  the  hill.  Come  up  to-night, 
and  talk  it  over." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  Joe's  voice  startled  the 
listener.  It  was  like  a  voice,  perhaps,  that  he  had 
heard  before ;  but  as  he  hurriedly  glanced  again  at 
the  speaker,  who  had  partly  turned  from  him  to 
point  out  the  cabin  on  the  mountain,  he  saw  only  the 
white  hair  and  beard  and  the  stooping  shoulders.  It 
was  certainly  a  stranger.  Yet  he  could  not  command 
a  perfect  cynical  indifference  in  replying  to  the 
stranger's  words.  There  was  a  shade  of  sadness  in 
his  answer,  — 

"If  you  talk  it  over,  you'll  change  your  mind. 
You  made  some  mistake  in  your  man." 

"  Then  I  won't  talk  it  over,"  replied  Joe.  "  Call  it 
settled.  No  mistake,  thank  God !  —  on  my  part.  I 
shall  expect  you.  You  know  wheie  to  find  me." 
And,  with  another  gesture  toward  his  cabin,  he  moved 
away. 

"No,  not  there,"  ejaculated  Bill  Hazard  fiercely. 
The  other  was  already  some  distance  away;  and  his 
features  were  not  distinctly  seen  as  he  paused  at  these 
words,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  morning;  but 
his  voice  carried  mingled  compassion  and  command. 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  29 

"Yes,  there!"  said  lie,  and,  swiftly  striding'  to 
wards  the  mine,  met  the  rest  of  the  night-shift  hast- 
iii2f  homeward.  At  the  same  moment  he  overtook  his 

tD 

own  companions  :  the  two  parties  were  mingled. 

"  My  last  day  with  you,  boys,"  he  remarked  cheer 
fully.  "Will  Hazard  and  I  are  going  to  try  our  luck 
as  partners." 

Thus  the  surprising  news  was  conveyed  in  a  trice 
to  the  two  classes  that  composed  the  population  of 
Silver  Sheen,  —  namely,  those  who  worked  by  day, 
and  those  who  worked  by  night.  Before  Joe  came 
out  of  the  Desdemona  at  the  close  of  his  shift,  in  the 
afternoon,  everybody  had  heard  of  it. 

After  Sam  Wetherill's  brief  call  that  evening  at 
the  cabin,  Thanksgiving  Joe  sat  alone,  waiting  for 
the  other  visitor  whom  he  expected.  His  usual  calm 
demeanor  seemed  to  have  forsaken  him.  He  piled 
brush  on  the  smoldering  fire  where  he  had  cooked 
his  supper,  until  it  flamed  like  the  beacon  that  Hero 
S2t  to  guide  the  course  of  her  coming  lover.  By  its 
blazing  light  he  strove  to  see  down  the  path  that  led 
to  the  canon,  but  to  his  dazzled  eyes  the  shadows 
were  darker  than  before.  Far  below,  like  stars  re 
flected,  twinkled  the  candles  in  many  a  window  ;  but 
between  them  and  him  wras  a  black  gulf.  Drawing 
from  his  pocket  a  worn  newspaper,  he  began  to  read, 
by  way  of  enforcing  patience  ;  but  nothing  attracted 
his  interest  until  his  eye  fell  upon  a  bold  head-line 
introducing  the  governor's  proclamation  of  Thanks- 


30  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

giving  Day.  The  name  reminded  him  of  his  own 
sobriquet,  and  he  glanced  down  the  lines  as  if  the 
announcement  had  some  special  meaning  for  him. 
The  governor,  not  unwilling  to  combine  business  with 
worship,  had  painted  in  brilliant  colors  the  produc 
tiveness  of  the  mines  of  the  State,  and  hinted,  as 
additional  cause  for  gratitude,  that  new  discoveries 
well  worthy  of  the  attention  of  capitalists  were  daily 
made.  That  part  Joe  passed  over  with  a  smile, 
thinking,  perhaps,  of  his  Mammoth  vein,  and  its  per 
fidious  "base  metal."  Over  another  paragraph  he 
paused  with  brightening  looks.  It  alluded  to  the  cir 
cumstance  that  all  the  States  now  observed,  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  President's  recommendation,  a 
simultaneous  Thanksgiving  Day.  His  thoughts  wan 
dered  far  to  the  East,  over  deserts  and  mountains, 
and  the  great  plains  and  the  great  rivers,  to  the 
Jersey  village  which  he  had  not  seen  for  five  years ; 
from  which,  since  his  fever,  two  years  ago,  he  had  not 
heard.  The  memory  was  disquieting;  for  it  was  his 
own  course  alone  that  had  thus  cut  him  off  —  from 
whom?  Only  one  friend  ;  and  she  only  a  friend.  It 
was  Thanksgiving  Day,  too,  when  he  saw  her  last. 
The  parson's  sermon  —  he  had  forgotten  it,  all  but 
the  text :  that  Jenny  had  written  out  for  him,  to 
satisfy  a  whim  of  his ;  and  he  had  folded  up  the  paper, 
and  carried  it  night  and  "day  ever  since.  If  he  had 
spoken  plainly  that  night,  would  she  have  become 
more  than  a  friend?  Alas,  perhaps !  —  yet  no,  no. 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  31 

A  hundred  times  he  had  been  thankful  that  she  was 
ignorant  of  his  love  and  his  sacrifice  ;  that  he  had 
left  her  with  a  pleasant  farewell,  expecting  to  return, 
after  two  or  three  years,  with  money  enough  to  justify 
him  in  asking  for  her  hand ;  that  he  had  never  be 
trayed  his  feelings  in  those  friendly  letters  which  ho 
had  sent  so  regularly,  and  which  were  so  regularly 
answered  until  —  ah !  he  must  not  think  of  that. 
Her  dear  letters  were  all  destroyed.  He  had  burned 
them  himself,  keeping  only  the  Thanksgiving  text, 
and  vowing,  for  her  sake,  and  his  own  soul's  sake, 
and  the  sake  —  of  him  whom  Jenny  loved,  to  live 
apart  from  her,  save  in  his  secret  thoughts,  and,  haply, 
in  the  life  to  come.  To-morrow  was  Thanksgiving 
Day  again,  and  he  tried  to  think  it  a  good  omen. 
His  sacrifice  was  not  complete  :  to-night,  he  hoped, 
would  happily  perfect  his  \\ork.  Yet  the  pain  of  loss 
was  not  wholly  dead ;  and  even  at  this  moment  he 
would  give  worlds  to  undo  utterly,  so  that  it  could  be 
as  if  it  had  not  been,  the  scheme  which  he  was  never 
theless  ready  to  give  his  life,  if  need  be,  to  consum 
mate.  For  a  man  is  still  a  man;  and  Joe  was  only 
thirty,  for  all  his  white  hairs. 

Absorbed  in  thought,  he  heeded  not  the  sound  of 
climbing  feet,  until  a  step  close  at  hand  aroused  him. 
As  he  sprang  up  and  stood  erect,  with  the  fire-light 
full  upon  him,  William  Hazard  strode  suddenly  out 
of  the  darkness,  looked  for  an  instant  with  an  intense, 
bewildered,  frightened  gaze,  into  his  eyes,  and  stag- 


32  CAMP  AND   CA1UN. 

gered  speechless  back  against  tlie  corner  of  the  cabin, 
staring  as  at  a  ghost.  The  governor's  proclamation 
fell  from  Joe's  hands,  which  were  stretched  out  in 
hearty  welcome. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  that  way,  Will,"  he  said.  "  I 
see  you  know  me  now,  though  you  did  not  this  morn 
ing.  I'm  changed  since  my  fever, — but  not  in  my 
heart  toward  you." 

The  stony  look  of  fright  passed  from  the  pale, 
young  face,  the  hard  lines  softened ;  but  Will  Hazard 
still  shrank  from  the  clasp  of  Joe's  welcoming  hands. 
"  Shoot,"  he  said,  folding  his  arms  across  his  breast : 
"  it's  your  turn,  and  I'm  glad  of  it !  " 

"Amen! "  replied  the  deep  voice  of  Thanksgiving 
Joe.  "  It  is  my  turn  :  your  life  belongs  to  me.  Is  it 
not  so?" 

His  visitor  nodded  without  speaking,  and  gloomily 
smiled  his  contempt  for  the  worthless  existence  al 
luded  to. 

"I  suppose  I  may  spare  it,  if  I  prefer  that  way," 
said  Joe. 

"  As  you  choose,"  replied  Hazard. 

"As  I  was  saying  this  morning,"  continued  Joe, 
with  a  quiet  consciousness  of  the  power  over  a  des 
perate  soul  which  this  strange  interview  had  for  a 
moment  given  him,  "  I  want  a  partner,  and  you  are 
the  man.  I  told  you  to  come  here  and  talk  it  over; 
and  you  have  come.  Now,  if  I  kill  you,  how  can  we 
talk  it  over?  "  he  added  slowly,  and  rubbed  his  hands 


THANKSGIVING   JOE.  33 

together  in  mute  applause  at  the  triumphant  argu 
ment.  "There's  some  mistake,  Will.  You  gave  me 
no  chance  to  explain,  otherwise  you  could  not  have 
thought  I  was  your  enemy."  Then,  suddenly  chan 
ging  his  manner,  he  asked,  "  Have  you  heard  from 
Jenny  Lockhart?  " 

"  What  is  the  use  of  tormenting  me  with  her 
name?  "  returned  Will.  "  She  is  the  cause  of  all  the 
trouble.  A  woman  is  not  worth  a  friend;  and  for 
that  woman  I  threw  my  friend  away.  I  loved  you, 
George,  till  the  devil  of  jealousy  took  possession  of 
me.  When  I  left  the  States,  three  years  ago,  she  had 
promised  to  be  my  wife.  You  were  her  cousin  and 
my  friend.  She  wrote  to  you,  and  you  read  me  her 
letters.  They  were  pleasant,  cousinly  letters,  and  I 
liked  to  hear  them.  I  did  not  tell  you  of  the  love- 
letters  she  wrote  at  the  same  time  to  me.  I  wanted 
to  watch  you.  I  suspected  you  of  receiving  others  of 
which  you  said  nothing. 

"  You  carried  in  your  belt  a  paper  which  you  never 
showed.  I  felt  sure  it  contained  your  secret.  I  tried 
to  get  it  without  your  knowledge;  but  you  kept  it 
always  on  your  body,  night  and  day.  At  last  you 
did  receive  a  letter  —  a  letter  from  her  —  which  you 
did  not  show  to  me.  I  saw  you  read  it,  at  night,  by 
the  light  of  the  camp-fire,  when  you  thought  I  was 
asleep.  You  put  your  head  in  your  hands,  and  sat  a 
long  time.  Then  you  took  from  your  bosom  a  pack 
age  of  letters,  put  them  all  in  the  fire  with  the  one 


3-1  CAMP  AND   CAJUN. 

you  had  just  read,  and  watched  them  till  they  were 
burned  up.  You  took  that  paper  from  your  belt,  as 
if  you  would  burn  that  too ;  and,  as  you  did  so,  I 
prepared  to  spring  out  of  my  blanket,  and  seize  it. 
I  was  determined  to  know  what  was  in  it.  But  you 
read  it  through,  shook  your  head,  and  put  it  back  in 
your  belt. 

"  The  next  clay  as  we  were  exploring,  two  or  three 
miles  from  our  camp,  we  came  over  the  summit  to 
the  head  of  this  canon.  You  know  well  enough  what 
happened.  You  sat  down  close  by  this  spot,  on  the 
croppings  of  that  ledge,  and  began  to  tell  me  that 
you  had  received  a  letter  from  Jenny.  It  was  too 
much  for  me  to  bear :  I  had  been  cursing  over  it  all 
night,  anyhow.  I  hated  her  and  you  as  a  pair  of 
double-dealing  deceivers.  I  forgot  that  she  only  was 
deceiving  me  :  you  could  not  know  that  I  was  en 
gaged  to  her.  I  interrupted  you  fiercely,  charged  you 
with  treachery,  demanded  the  secret  paper  from  you, 
and,  without  waiting  for  your  answer,  sprang  upon 
you  in  a  fury  to  snatch  the  belt  from  your  waist. 

"  We  fell  together.  I  swear  to  you,  George  Gra 
ham,  that  I  did  not  draw  my  revolver.  It  went  off 
by  accident.  But  the  rage  of  murder  was  in  my 
heart;  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  black  thoughts 
had  become  hands,  and  fired  the  pistol.  You  fainted, 
I  suppose.  I  thought  I  had  killed  you,  and  I  fled  like 
Cain.  But  I  would  have  come  back  to  you,  only  I 
saw  from  a  distance  a  party  approaching.  They 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  35 

came,  as  if  guided  by  a  pointing  hand,  straight  to  the 
spot  where  you  lay.  I  saw  them  take  you  up,  and 
knew  by  their  angry  gestures,  and  their  keen  looks  in 
every  direction,  that  they  were  determined  to  hunt 
do\vn  your  murderer.  At  first  I  would  have  re 
turned,  and  surrendered  myself;  but,  when  some  of 
them  started  in  the  direction  where  I  crouched,  the 
instinct  of  fear  took  hold  on  me,  and  I  ran.  They 
neither  caught  nor  discovered  me  ;  and  I  found  my 
way  to  Austin,  to  Virginia  City,  to  Unionville,  to 
Boise,  to  Helena,  to  Salt  Lake,  to  Denver,  to  Santa 
Fc,  to  Prescott  and  Tucson,  to  La  Paz,  and  San 
Diego,  to  San  Francisco,  Sacramento,  Yreka,  —  every 
where,  with  the  devil  in  my  heart. 

"  Two  desires  tortured  me  for  ever.  I  could  not  de 
stroy  them,  and  I  dared  not  fulfill  them.  One  was  to 
return  to  this  place,  gain  some  news  of  you,  and  find 
at  least  your  grave.  The  other  was  to  go  back  to 
Jersey,  meet  Jenny  Lockhart,  tell  her  of  the  ruin  she 
had  brought  on  honest  men,  —  how  one  had  lost  his 
life,  and  the  other  his  soul,  by  her  faithlessness,  and 
so  make  her  taste  a  share  of  the  bitterness  that  I  felt. 
I  couldn't  do  it —  I  —  in  short,  I  loved  the  girl  yet,  in 
spite  of  all  she  had  done,  and  I  despised  myself  for 
it.  I'm  bad  enough,  —  too  bad,  in  fact,  to  take  any 
pleasure  in  the  beastly  sins  of  these  low-lived  Wretches. 
I  don't  like  mankind  well  enough  to  drink  or  gamble 
with  them.  I  don't  fight  them  even,  though  they 
seem  to  think  me  a  desperate  fellow,  who  would  as 


36  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

soon  kill  a  dozen  of  them  as  not.  Bah !  if  a  man 
simply  despises  them,  they  think  he  must  want  their 
blood.  Sots,  thieves,  and  murderers :  that's  their 
classification  of  society.  They  were  right,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned.  I  was  a  murderer  in  passion,  and  I 
thought  in  deed;  but  the  business  had  no  such  at 
tractions  as  to  make  me  intend  to  carry  it  on  whole 
sale  and  for  life. 

"  I'll  not  make  a  long  story  of  it.  But  you  wanted 
to  talk  it  over,  and  you  had  better  hear  me  out. 
When  I  am  done,  I  am  done.  I  don't  play  the  re 
pentant  sinner  with  you,  George  Graham.  It  seems 
to  me  there  is  no  room  and  no  use  for  repentance.  I 
could  love  you — if  you  could  trust  me  again;  but 
that's  impossible.  Your  forgiveness  I  don't  want. 
What  I  want  is  to  pay  my  debt.  I  will  not  be  your 
partner;  but,  if  you  will  let  me  work  for  you,  it  will 
be  a  better  reparation  than  I  expected  to  make  when 
I  came  up  here  to-night.  I  came  here,  as  I  came  to 
this  camp  a  fortnight  ago,  because  I  couldn't  keep 
awray.  When  they  talked  of  Thanksgiving  Joe,  and 
showed  me  your  cabin,  on  the  very  spot  that  was  the 
most  dreadful  to  me  in  all  the  wrorld,  I  knew  in  my 
soul  that  somehow  my  fate  wras  fastened  to  yours. 
I  thought  you  had  my  secret,  and  would  be  my  judge. 
I  wouldn't  let  anybody  tell  me  the  story  of  Thanks 
giving  Joe  —  the  name  was  awful  to  me.  And  at 
last  you  found  me,  and  called  me  —  and  I  came  to  my 
doom.  It  is  better  than  I  dreamed.  Even  I  can 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  37 

give  thanks  to  know  that  George  Graham,  hated  and 
wronged,  was  not  killed  outright  by  the  hand  of  his 
treacherous  friend. 

"  George,  I  will  do  for  you  what  man  may  do. 
Perhaps  you  may  some  day  begin  to  trust  me  over 
again,  and  lay  the  blame  of  my  crime  upon  the 
woman  wrho  betrayed  us  both." 

During  this  long,  speech  neither  of  the  parties  had 
moved.  Will  Hazard  stood,  at  its  conclusion,  with 
his  arms  still  folded,  and  looked  into  the  fire.  He 
had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glowing  brands,  speak 
ing  in  low,  measured  tones,  as  if  another  spoke 
through  him.  But  George  Graham  had  never  re 
moved  his  keen  gaze  from  the  face  of  his  friend; 
and  now  he  stepped  forward  once  more,  laid  his  hand 
upon  Will's  shoulder,  and  said,  — 

"  Thank  God,  you  love  her  yet !  " 

The  young  man,  taken  by  surprise  at  this  sudden 
assault,  started,  and  tried  to  speak.  But  George  went 
on,  with  simple,  quaint  gravity,  — 

"  No :  it  is  my  turn  now.  Come  here  and  sit 
down.  As  I  said  before,  I  want  a  partner.  Now 
we're  going  to  talk  it  over.  You're  all  wrong,  Will. 
If  you  had  seen  the  letter  I  burned,  you  would  know 
that  Jenny  Lockhart  was  true  as  steel  to  you.  She 
told  me  in  that  letter — what  you  had  not  let  me 
know.  She  begged  me  to  be  your  friend  always,  as 
I  had  been  hers.  I  —  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  that 
night.  It's  all  past  now,  you  know,"  said  George, 


38  CAMP  AND  CA13IN. 

with  a  tremor  of  his  voice.  Will  did  not  perceive  it: 
he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  the  effect  of  the  dis 
covery  upon  his  own  feelings. 

"  Then  you  didn't  love  her,  after  all !  "  he  cried : 
"  you  were  only  her  cousin  and  friend !  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  ;  and  then  George 
answered,  like  an  echo  from  afar,  "Yes,  her  cousin 
and  friend." 

"  But  you  burned  up  her  letters  ?  "  pursued  the 
young  man,  so  eagerly  following  the  clew  of  the 
riddle  that  seemed  to  hold  his  happiness  as  to  forget 
entirely  for  the  moment  his  recent  attitude  of  con 
fessed  culprit.  "  And  you  kept  one?  " 

Thanksgiving  Joe,  with  slow  and  steady  hand,  un 
buckled  his  belt,  took  from  it  the  folded  paper, 
opened  it,  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying,  without 
further  explanation,  "We'll  burn  that  too." 

Will  read,  bewildered,  the  words  which  seemed  so 
far  from  being  the  shrine  of  any  special  secret. 
"'Let  us  come  before  his  presence  with  Thanksgiv 
ing.'  There  is  nothing  in  that !  " 

Thanksgiving  Joe  silently  stretched  out  his  hand, 
took  back  the  paper,  replaced  it  in  his  belt,  and,  with 
a  simplicity  that  was  more  baffling  than  diplomacy, 
resumed  the  thread  of  his  discourse.  "  As  I  was 
saying,  I  want  a  partner.  To-morrow  morning  you'll 
write  to  Jenny;  and  we  two  will  go  to  work  in 
earnest.  It  won't  be  long  before  you  can  go  back  to 
her.  We  are  wiser  than  we  were.  It  isn't  worth 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  39 


while  to  spend  a  lifetime  trying  to  get  ready  to  begin. 
Jenny  don't  want  you  to  be  rich.  She  said  so  in  — 
in  that  letter.  When  we  get  a  good  mine,  you  can 
go  home,  and  leave  me  to  work  it.  I  am  better  off 
out  here  :  I've  got  used  to  the  country.  I  mean  to 
live  and  die  out  here  somewhere.  And  if  you  and 
Jenny  will  write  to  me  —  why,  I  won't  burn  your 
letters  any  more." 

This  pleasantry  had  a  mournful  tone  that  would 
have  revealed  to  any  disinterested  observer  the  sorrow 
that  lurked  beneath.  But  Will's  thoughts  were  miles 
away;  and,  when  he  recalled  them,  it  was  only  for 
self-reproach.  He  lamented  gloomily  his  un  worthi 
ness,  and  declared,  that,  though  heaven  now  opened 
before  him,  he  dared  not  set  his  foot  upon  the  thresh 
old.  "No,  George,"  he  said,  "I  owe  the  rest  of  my 
life  to  you.  If  we  could  go  back  together  —  but  what 
folly  !  Here  wre  sit,  as  poor  as  your  old  Mammoth 
vein  there,  and  dream  of  happiness.  I  have  earned 
and  squandered  money  enough  in  these  twro  years 
past  to  make  our  dreams  come  true;  but  now  I  must 
reap  what  I  have  sown.  It  was  almost  better  to  be 
lieve  her  false." 

He  rose  gloomily  as  he  spoke,  and  George  did  not 
detain  him.  His  morbid  mind  could  not  be  all  at 
once  restored  to  health.  It  was  better  to  let  him  be 
alone  for  a  while,  and  realize  his  new  position.  So 
George  rose  also,  and  the  two  men  clasped  hands  for 
a  brief  farewell.  An  instant  they  stood  thus,  and 


40  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

then,  by  a  common  impulse,  kissed  each  other.  Ifc 
was  the  pledge  of  reconciliation  and  hope.  The 
terms  of  their  relation  seemed  to  be  settled  by  it ;  for 
they  parted  with  an  air  of  familiarity,  and  with  no 
more  formal  words  than,  "  Well,  good-night,  old  fel 
low.  Take  care  of  yourself.  See  you  in  the  morn 
ing."  Whereat  Thanksgiving  Joe  went  straightway 
into  his  cabin,  and  Will  Hazard  took  the  path  down 
the  canon.  The  former,  exhausted  by  the  interview, 
but  at  peace  with  himself,  rolled  into  his  bunk,  and 
soon  slept  soundly ;  but  the  latter  stopped  half  way 
down  the  hill,  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  wakeful  meditation. 

All  this  time  the  governor's  proclamation  of 
Thanksgiving  had  lain  unnoticed  where  it  had  fallen 
from  Joe's  hands.  The  fire  had  burned  nearly  out; 
but  a  few  coals  remained,  to  brighten  occasionally  as 
a  puff  of  the  night-wind  touched  them.  At  every 
puff,  moreover,  the  newspaper  with  the  governor's 
proclamation  hitched  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire.  Be 
tween  times  it  paused,  or  seemed  to  retreat ;  then,  by 
rolling  over,  and  sliding  swiftly  forward,  it  made  up 
every  loss  of  ground.  It  seemed  to  be  alive,  and 
hesitating,  while  it  advanced,  to  carry  out  some  plan 
of  mischief.  At  last,  with  a  leap  of  undisguised  in 
tent,  it  fell  upon  the  embers,  swept  across  them, 
bursting  into  flame  as  it  did  so,  and,  flying  over  the 
short  intervening  space,  clung  like  a  fiery  monster  to 
the  dry,  resinous  pinon-stems  of  the  cabin,  within 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  41 

which,  unconscious  of  his  peril,  lay  Thanksgiving 
Joe. 

A  moment  later  Will  Hazard  was  aware  of  a  lurid 
light  that  threw  his  own  shadow  in  front  of  him,  and, 
starting  from  his  revery,  turned  to  see  wrapped  in 
flames  the  cabin  he  had  recently  left.  His  trumpet- 
call  of  "Fire!  "  brought  the  miners  from  their  work 
or  sleep  ;  and  a  dozen  men  were  soon  hastening  up 
the  hillside.  But  Will  had  the  start  of  them  by  a 
long  ascent;  and  with  flying  feet  he  sped  to  the 
cabin,  shouting  as  he  bounded  up  the  rocky  steep. 

Thanksgiving  Joe  was  dreaming  of  a  quiet  Jersey 
village-church,  and  a  sweet  face  therein,  when  he  was 
aroused  by  the  shouts,  and  sprang  up  bewildered  to 
find  himself  surrounded  with  smoke  and  flame.  A 
step  through  the  scorching  circle  would  have  placed 
him  in  safety;  but  alas!  in  his  confusion  he  rushed 
in  the  wrong  direction,  and,  instead  of  escaping  by 
the  door  in  front,  stumbled  over  the  pile  of  rock  and 
ore  at  the  rear  of  his  cabin,  and  fell  headlong  into 
the  shaft  of  the  Mammoth.  A  second  after,  Will 
Hazard  leaped  through  the  blazing  ruins,  calling  his 
friend's  name.  The  bed,  the  room,  were  empty; 
but  a  feeble  voice  replied  from  the  depths  to  his 
frantic  call,  and  by  the  light  of  the  burning  cabin 
he  saw  Thanksgiving  Joe  lying  helpless,  twelve  feet 
below  him,  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft. 

The  first  miners  that  arrived  met  Will  carrying  in 
his  arms  a  heavy  burden,  the  body  of  his  friend. 


42  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

Thanksgiving  Joe  (by  this  name  he  was  best  known 
to  them  and  to  us)  had  fainted  away.  Tenderly  they 
carried  him  to  the  nearest  cabin,  and  applied  their 
simple  means  of  restoration.  But  for  hours  they 
could  not  bring  him  back  to  consciousness. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  Sam  Wetherill,  who 
had  been  foremost  in  service  by  the  bunk  of  the 
sufferer,  stepped  to  where  Will  Hazard  sat  in  a  stupor 
of  grief,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  beckoned 
him  to  follow.  lie  was  obeyed,  and  presently  the 
two  men  stood  together  in  the  open  air.  The  dawn 
was  breaking. 

"  Look  here  !  "  said  Sam  quietly.  "  This  yer  busi 
ness  has  got  to  be  explored.  I  was  at  Joe's  cabin 
last  night,  and  I  know  he  was  expectin'  you.  If 
you've  got  any  remarks  to  make,  you  might  as  well 
make  'em  to  me — -unless  you  prefer  a  committee." 

This  allusion  to  lynch  law  did  not  move  the  nerves 
of  the  pale  young  man,  whose  reputation  as  a  des 
perado  seemed  now  likely  to  put  him  in  peril. 

"If  George  Graham  dies,"  said  he,  "I  shall  not 
want  to  live." 

Sam  turned,  with  a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling. 

"You  knowed  him?  you  loved  him?"  said  he. 
"He  was  the  best  man  in  the  sage-brush.  Thar 
warn't  no  discount  on  him."  He  warn't  no  slouch. 
He  was  a  man—  Give  us  your  hand!"  And  the 
discovery  of  a  big  burn,  hitherto  unheeded,  on  AVill 
Hazard's  hand,  furnished  final  testimony  to  his  sin 
cere  efforts  for  the  rescue  of  Thanksgiving  Joe. 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  43 

At  tliis  moment  occurred  another  incident,  for  the 
preliminary  explanation  of  which  a  few  words  are 
required. 

Redhead  Pete,  it  will  be  remembered,  has  gone  on 
one  of  his  periodical  hunts  after  the  Lost  Silver  Mine. 
For  many  days,  nothing  has  been  heard  from  him. 
But  now,  in  the  cold,  first  light  of  the  morning,  he 
comes  over  the  summit,  ragged,  hirsute,  defeated,  but 
not  conquered.  Once  more  his  quest  has  failed,  yet 
the  hope  which  inspired  it  springs  eternal  in  his 
heart. 

He  pauses  at  the  sight  of  the  smoldering  ruins  of 
Joe's  cabin.  No  one  is  near  to  explain  the  mystery. 
Pete  walks  to  the  edge  of  the  shaft,  among  the  smok 
ing  brands,  and  reflectively  turns  over  with  his  booted 
foot  the  blackened  fragments  of  Joe's  pile  of  worth 
less  ore.  "This  yer  base  metal,"  he  mutters  —  but 
suddenly  he  stoops,  seizes  a  stone,  rubs  it  up  and 
down  on  his  buckskin  breeches  to  clean  its  surface, 
and  eagerly  examines  a  dozen  little  whitish  pellets 
that  seem  to  be  clinging  to  it  like  drops  of  perspira 
tion.  As  a  final  test,  he  takes  out  his  jack-knife, 
and  cuts  into  one  of  them.  It  is  pure  silver ! 

Pete  is  no  fool.  His  credulity  towards  Shoshones 
and  their  legends  does  not  prevent  him  now  from  be 
having  like  a  wise  and  prudent  man.  He  walks  to 
the  end  of  Joe's  claim  on  the  Mammoth,  and  there 
erects  one  of  the  half-burnt  poles  of  the  cabin,  on 
which  he  rudt  ly  carves  the  words,  "Ex.  No.  1,  South, 


44  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

Peter  Jackson."  Then,  and  not  before,  he  comes 
down  into  the  quiet,  solemn  camp,  leaping  from  rock 
to  rock,  with  hair  and  arms  flying  abroad,  and  whoop 
ing  and  shouting:  — 

"  Whar's  Thanksgiving  Joe?  Whar  is  he?  That 
thar  ledge  o'  his'n  's  the  clear  bullion  :  the  ore  only 
wants  to  be  burnt,  'n  the  silver  jest  biles  out  of  it" 

And  so,  bestowing  on  the  air  and  on  the  distant 
ears  of  men  his  reckless  and  fragmentary  explana 
tions,  he  rushes  dowitward  to  the  spot  where  Sam 
and  Will  are  standing.  Their  sad  faces  hush  him  at 
once.  But  Thanksgiving  Joe,  lying  until  now  uncon 
scious  within  the  cabin,  has  been  roused  by  the  shouts, 
has  recognized  his  name,  has  opened  his  eyes,  and 
looked  around  upon  the  sorrowful  company,  as  for 
some  missing  face.  Divining  his  mute  request,  the 
colonel  steps  to  the  door,  and  calls  in  the  three  who 
stand  outside.  As  they  enter,  Joe  looks  inquiringly 
upon  them.  Sam  takes  his  hand. 

"  All  right,  old  man  !  "  says  Sam.  "  You  jest  shake 
yerself,  '11  you'll  git  over  this.  Thr.r's  good  news  at 
last.  That  thar  Mammoth  Ledge,  as  we  all  thought 
was  base  metal,  was  jest  nothin'  but  this  yer  roastin' 
ore,  like  what  they  tell  of  up  to  Austin,  —  base  metal 
ef  you  try  to  work  it  wet,  'n  putty  nigh  the  clear 
spoon  metal  if  you  jest  warm  it  up  with  fire  afore- 
hand." 

Candor  compels  me  to  state  that  several  of  the 
sympathetic  audience  glide  quietly  from  the  room 


THANKSGIVING  JOE.  45 

during  these  brief  remarks,  and,  on  getting  outside 
the  house,  begin  a  fierce  race  to  the  Mammoth  claim, 
—  a  proceeding  which  Redhead  Pete,  secure  in  the 
possession  of  Extension  No.  1,  South,  regards  with 
quiet  amusement. 

Thanksgiving  Joe  listens  intelligently.  "  Thank 
God ! "  his  faint  voice  murmurs,  breaking  into  the 
familiar  ascription  for  the  last  time.  Then,  gather 
ing  his  strength,  he  says  with  an  effort,  but  dis 
tinctly,  — 

"  Gentlemen,  my  name  is  George  Graham.  This 
man,  William  Hazard,  is  my  dear  friend  and  partner. 
He  is  half-owner  in  the  Mammoth  claim;  and  the 
half-interest  that  belongs  to  me  —  I  hereby  —  give 
and  bequeath  —  to  him  —  in  trust  —  for  Miss  Janet 
Lockhart  —  he  knows.  Sam,  you  will  see  the  papers 
straight  ?  " 

Sam  nods.  "  Whatever  you  say,  Joe,  is  better'n 
law  in  this  camp.  There's  nobody  here  that'll  go 
back  on  your  words." 

A  murmur  of  subdued  assent  runs  round  the  room. 
Will  Hazard  falls  on  his  knees  by  the  bunk,  and 
buries  his  face  in  the  blanket.  Thanksgiving  Joe, 
still  holding  Sam  Wetherill's  hand  in  one  of  his  own, 
lays  the  other  upon  Will's  clustering  hair. 

"  Give  her  my  love,  Will,"  he  says,  and  closes  his 
eyes  for  several  minutes.  The  stillness  is  broken 
only  by  sobs  from  the  kneeling  figure  of  Hazard. 
At  last  the  dying  man  looks  up  once  more. 


46 


CAMP  AND  CAKLV. 


"My  belt,"  he  says.  They  had  taken  it  off  \vhon 
they  were  hunting  upon  his  body  for  the  injuries, 
which,  being,  alas!  internal,  could  neither  be  found 
nor  cured.  Now  they  bring  it  to  him,  and  once  more 
his  fingers  feebly  seek  the  precious  paper  which  it 
contains.  He  draws  it  forth,  reads  with  fading  sight 
the  well-known  lines.  A  wave  of  peace  glides  over 
his  face,  an  expression  of  unutterable  gratitude. 
Soundlessly  his  lips  form  the  solemn  "  Amen."  The 
hand  falls  lifeless  —  Joe  lias  obeyed  the  summons  of 
the  Almighty  Father,  and  entered  into  his  presence 
with  thanksgiving. 


AGAMEMNON: 
A    STORY    OF    CALIFORNIA. 


I. 


YOUNG    BULLION. 

OT?  You  bet  it's  hot!  A  cool  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  in  the  shade  ! "  So  Stephen 
Moore,  the  stage-driver,  paradoxically  de 
scribed  the  weather,  while  he  watered  his 
horses  from  a  rather  slimy-looking  spring  by  a  soli 
tary  cabin  among  the  foot-hills.  Before  him  were 
barren  reaches  of  dusty  white  ascending  road,  their 
ridges  dotted  with  black  spots  of  scrub-oak,  then  be 
yond  all  the  blue  line  of  the  High  Sierra.  Behind 
him  the  great  plain  of  California,  or  rather  that  por 
tion  of  it  which  lies  around  and  south  of  Tulare  Lake, 
shimmered  in  the  heat,  and  sent  up  little  dust  whirl 
winds  that  traveled  hither  and  thither  over  its  glow 
ing  surface  like  slender  pillars  of  cloud.  In  a  few 
years  the  desert  would  blossom,  and  miles  upon  miles 

47 


48%  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

of  golden  harvest  would  wave  where  now  the  vrild  oats 
and  grasses,  early  browned  by  sultry  summer,  only 
mimicked  the  husbandry  of  man.  A  little  later  the 
locomotive  would  shoot  and  toot  through  these  spa 
cious  solitudes.  But  that  time  was  not  yet;  and  as  it 
is  said  to  be  darkest  just  before  daybreak,  so  it  seemed 
most  lonely  in  the  land  just  before  it  was  going  to 
become  most  "lively." 

"  Yes,  sir"  said  Stephen,  "one  hundred  and  fifteen, 
if  it's  an  inch!  But  you  don't  feel  the  heat  here  as 
you  do  in  the  States.  Why,  ninety  on  Broadway  just 
knocks  the  people  over  right  and  left  with  sunstrokes. 
But  there's  Young  Bullion  there,  a-sleeping  on  the 
coach,  with  his  hat  off,  and  his  face  to  the  sun,  and 
not  taking  any  harm,  either." 

Stephen's  remarks  were  addressed  to  the  passenger 
who  shared  with  him  the  driver's  seat,  —  a  young  man 
of  whose  personal  appearance  at  that  moment  little 
can  be  said,  since,  like  everybody  else  who  had  trav 
eled  that  day  along  the  valley  road,  with  the  wind 
dead  in  the  rear,  he  was  so  covered  with  dust  as  to  be 
all  of  one  color  from  head  to  foot,  except  where  his 
eyes  peeped  out  under  their  dusty  lashes,  like  clean 
children  at  the  window  of  an  adobe  cabin.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  say  much  concerning  this  young  man. 
He  has  little  to .  do  with  the  story,  except  to  tell  it ; 
for  the  truth  must  out.  It  was  the  present  narrator 
who  sat  as  aforesaid  on  the  clay  above  mentioned, 
while  Stephen  watered  the  horses,  and  Young  Bullion 


AGAMEMNON.  4ft 

slept  sprawling  on  the  top  of  the  coach.  Having 
confessed  so  much,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  keep 
the  traveler  who  tells  this  story  in  the  chilly  and 
unconfidential  position  of  a  third  person  any  longer: 
and  he  will  therefore,  with  the  reader's  permission, 
speak  of  himself,  as  folks  usually  do,  in  the  first 
t person. 

I  was  going  up  into  the  mountains  to  visit  a  newly- 
discovered  mining-district  when  Stephen  first  called 
my  attention  to  Young  Bullion,  as  narrated  above.  I 
had  not  noticed  him  before;  but  this  was  easily  ex 
plained  by  the  fact  that  I  had  only  just  got  a  chance 
to  ride  outside,  the  seat  having  been  occupied  from 
Stockton  by  an  exasperating  old  cattle-breeder,  who 
never  wanted  to  change  places  with  an  inside  passen 
ger.  Heat,  dust,  night,  sleep,  wind, — whatever  usu 
ally  disposes  the  outsider  to  make  such  a  temporary 
exchange,  —  had  no  effect  upon  him.  But  at  last  we 
came  to  a  ranche  where  the  cattle-breeder  alighted 
for  good,  leaving  my  friend  Stephen  free  to  offer  the 
seat  by  his  side  to  me,  whom  he  called  "Professor," 
because  I  was  going  up  to  inspect  mines.  In  the 
Middle  West  it  is  "Judge"  or  "Kernel:"  in  the  Far 
West  "  Professor  "  has  been  added  to  the  list  of  handy 
titles  for  strangers. 

Stephen  and  I  wrere  not  strangers,  however.  We 
had  made  many  a  trip  together  on  the  Wells-Fargo 
coaches  in  California,  Oregon,  and  Nevada;  and  once 
we  had  started  for  a  real  vacation-spree,  gone  through 


50  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

the  Yosomite,  the  Hetch-Hetchy,  up  to  the  headwaters 
of  the  Tuolumne,  and  so  on  through  the  High  Sierra, 
away  to  the  mighty  canons  of  Kern  and  King  Rivers, 
camping  on  the  bare  ground  at  night,  wherever  we 
could  find  water  and  grass  for  our  horses.  So  we  had 
plenty  to  talk  about  now  that  we  had  met  again; 
and,  when  I  climbed  to  my  place  by  his  side,  I  paid 
no  attention  to  the  form  that  lay  stretched  on  the  still 
higher  seat,  behind  the,  driver's. 

But  at  the  next  stopping-place,  as  I  have  already 
remarked,  Stephen  mentioned  the  sleeping  passenger 
as  "Young  Bullion;  "  and  this  caused  me  to  turn  and 
inspect  him.  He  was  so  short,  that  he  lay  at  full- 
length  upon  the  seat,  without  hanging  over  his  feet,  or 
doubling  up  his  legs,  as  experience  had  taught  me  I 
must  needs  do  when  I  tried  to  sleep  in  that  situation. 
The  freckled  face,  light  yellow  hair,  and  brown 
stubby  hand,  presented  nothing  extraordinary.  It 
was  evidently  a  mere  boy,  exposing  his  complexion 
in  a  way  which  his  mother  would  have  disapproved, 
had  she  known  he  was  so  emphatically  "out." 

"What  makes  you  call  him  'Young  Bullion'?"  I 
asked,  surveying  his  coarse,  patched  clothes,  and  fail 
ing  to  see  any  special  indications  of  the  precious 
metal  about  him. 

"  Well,"  replied  Stephen,  as  he  swashed  the  horses' 
legs  with  the  water  they  had  left  in  the  pail,  "it's  a 
name  the  boys  gave  him,  over  at  Pactolus  district, 
lie  discovered  the  district ;  and  he  owns  the  best  claim 


AGAMEMNON.  51 

on  the  best  mine  there,  —  the  biggest  thing  on  the 
coast,  they  say,  next  to  the  Comstock." 

As  this  was  a  statement  which  I  had  heard  concern 
ing  a  score  of  mines  at  different  times,  I  \vas  not  as 
deeply  thrilled  by  it  as  a  tyro  might  have  been ;  and 
it  was  with  some  indifference  that  I  said,  "Ah! 
what's  the  name  of  the  mine?  " 

"The  Agamemnon,"  said  Stephen.  "It's  named 
after  him.  Agamemnon's  his  real  name." 

That  did  give  me  a  little  start;  for  the  Agamemnon 
mine  in  Pactolus  district  was  the  very  property  I  had 
been  sent  from  San  Francisco  to^xamine.  But  I  re 
flected  that  many  claims  might  be  located  side  by  side 
on  the  same  lode,  and  doubtless  some  other  part  than 
that  which  belonged  to  this  boy  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  my  clients.  At  all  events,  I  preserved  a 
due  professional  reticence  as  to  my  own  business,  and 
remarked  only,  "  Agamemnon  is  a  queer  name.  Aga 
memnon  what  V  " 

By  this  time  the  driver  was  mounting  again ;  and, 
before  he  could  answer  my  question,  he  had  to  unwind 
the  reins  from  the  break-bar,  arrange  them  properly 
in  the  gloved  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  pick  up  his 
long-lashed  whip  from  the  top  of  the  coach,  then  take 
off  the  break,  and  tell  the  horses  pithily  to  "  Git !  " 
These  operations  were  scarcely  completed,  when 
Young  Bullion  suddenly  sat  upright,  and  replied  in 
person  to  my  inquiry,  which  he  must  have  overheard. 

"  Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan,"  said  he,  with  a 


52  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

twinkle  in  his  shrewd  gray  eyes.  "  The  boys  call  it 
Bullion  when  the  old  man  ain't  around.  'Twouldift 
suit  the  old  man,  you  bet!  " 

"  Who  is  the  old  man  V  — your  father?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  replied  gravely.     "  My  son." 

Seeing  my  look  of  blank  amazement,  Stephen  in 
terposed  the  explanation  that  this  was  the  jocose  way 
in  which  the  camp  chose  to  consider  the  relationship. 

"Well,"  said  Agamemnon,  "how's  a  feller  to 
know,  except  by  what  folks  say?  And  think  I'd  let 
the  old  man  play  father  around  my  place?  He 
couldn't  run  the  macBine  a  day." 

"  I  was  somewhat  displeased  by  this  disrespectful 
tone;  but  I  let  it  pass  without  comment,  partly  be 
cause  the  atmosphere  wras  not  favorable  to  lectures  en 
filial  piety,  and  partly  because  I  was  following  in  my 
mind  a  suggested  coincidence.  To  make  myself  cer 
tain,  I  took  out  my  note-book,  and  sought  the  address 
of  the  party  to  whom  I  was  to  apply  for  permission 
to  inspect  the  Agamemnon  mine.  It  was,  as  I  had 
supposed,  Mr.  O'Ballyhan.  Turning  +o  the  boy,  who 
had  watched  my  movements  keenly,  I  said,  "  I  think 
it  must  be  your  father  with  whom  I  have  some 
business." 

"  Who?  The  old  man?  Business?  Not  much  !  If 
you've  got  any  business,  it's  with  me:  you  just  rest 
easy  on  that!  Come  up  from  the  Bay  to  look  at  tho 
Agamemnon  ledge,  now,  hain't  you?  Well,  I'm  your 
man!  Oh!  you  needn't  go  for  to  doubt  my  word. 


AGAMEMNON.  53 

I'm  the  only  fust-class,  responsible,  business  O'Bally- 
lian  on  the  Pacific  coast.  Bet  ye  what  ye  like. 
Put  up  yer  money,  '11  leave  it  to  Steve.  No,  I  won't ! 
Don't  bet ;  swore  off.  Never  did,  very  heavy,  any 
how.  But  Steve  there,  he'll  tell  yer  it's  all  right. 
Go  in,  Steve  !  If  he  won't  believe  yer,  bet  with  him 
yerself,  'n  leave  it  to  the  first  bullwhacker  ye  meet." 

But  I  was  ready  to  accept  Steve's  assurance  that 
this  premature  young  adventurer  was  actually  the 
mine-owner  with  whom  my  clients  were  negotiating. 
A  very  little  further  conversation  soon  put  this  point 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

"  You've  been  pretty  lively,"  said  he.  "  Thought 
I'd  be  one  coach  ahead  o'  ye,  and  git  a  chance  to 
open  up  the  mine  a  little.  But  I  had  to  stop  over  at 
Stockton  to  buy  some  powder  and  steel.  Got  a  new 
kind  o'  powder,  —  this  yer  giant  powder  :  made  the 
feller  show  me  how  to  use  it.  We  went  out  o'  town 
half  a  mile,  an'  couldn't  find  no  rocks  :  so  we  blowed  a 
scrub-oak  all  to  sawdust.  That's  how  I  lost  a  day." 

"Have  you  been  in  San  Francisco?"  I  inquired. 
"It  is  strange  that  my  friends  did  not  mention  it." 

"Think  I'd  let  'em  know  I  was  there?"  he  replied 
with  a  wyink.  "  I'll  tell  ye  jest  what  I  did :  went 
down  to  Stockton  with  twelve  mules  an'  a  big  load  o' 
fust-class  Agamemnon  ore,  — this  yer  black  sulphuret, 
free  gold  sprinkled  all  through  it,  an'  put  it  in  the 
fire,  an' the  silver  sw7eats  out  to  boot,  —  sent  it  down 
from  Stockton  by  boat,  an'  sot  on  the  bags  myself, 


54  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

you  bet,  all  the  way,  with  a  six-shooter  in  my  pocket. 
Soon's  I'd  got  it  down  thar  all  safe,  'n  locked  up  in  a 
warehouse,  I  went  off  to  git  some  dinner.  When  the 
waiter  fetched  the  pork  'n  beans,  I  kind  o'  liked  his 
looks;  'n  says  I,  'I  want  a  agent  for  a  little  bit  o' 
business  here  in  town,  'n  I  guess  you're  my  man.' 
lie  laughed  at  fust ;  thought  I  was  fool'n'  him,  or 
else  was  a  fool  myself.  But  I  fixed  that  quick 
enough.  Says  I,  '  Now  don't  go  for  to  think  you 
can  take  me  in  because  I'm  small.  Ye  can't  come 
110  tricks  over  me.  I've  got  fifteen  tons  o'  fust-class 
Agamemnon  ore  to  sell,  all  picked  and  sacked.  Here's 
a  fair  sample,  'n  there's  plenty  more  whar  that  came 
from.  If  you  want  to  sell  it  for  me,  'n  earn  a  hun 
dred  dollars  easy,  say  so.' 

"Well,  his  eyes  stuck  out  so  when  he  see  my  sam 
ple,  that  he  looked  half  scared  to  death.  But  he  was 
glad  enough  to  be  my  agent.  He  was  a  big  swell 
when  he  was  dressed  up,  'n  he  could  make  a  power- 
fid  impression,  only  not  on  me.  'I  ain't  what  I  was,' 
says  he,  while  we  was  a-talkin' :  '  I've  seen  better 
days.'  — '  Now  you  jest  come  down,' says  I:  'I  don't 
want  no  more  o'  that!  Git  enough  f'm  in'  old  man. 
As  for  you,  ye're  putty  nigh  what  ye  always  was  'n 
always  will  be,  'n  y'  hain't  seen  no  better  day  'n  this 
one '11  be,  if  ye  behave  yerself.' 

"'Young  man/  says  he,  'you  ought  to  be  respeck- 
fnl  to  yer  elders.' 

"  '  Elders  !  '  says  I,  hollerin'  like  mad,  —  '  who  d'ye 


AGAMEMNON.  55 

call  elders?  I  was  born  in  the  year  one,  'n  I'm  eigh 
teen  hundred  'n  sixty-five  years  old,  A.D.,  U.S.  :  d'ye 
hear  that?'  Then  I  laid  my  six-shooter  alongside  o' 
my  plate ;  'n  says  I,  '  I'll  be  obliged  to  you  if  you'll 
call  me  Mr.  O'Ballyhan.' 

"  Well,  that's  the  way  I  got  my  agent.  He  was 
the  politest  feller,  after  that,  you  ever  see.  When 
he  went  round  to  a  big  house  in  Market  Street, 
where  they  was  a-buyin'  ores  to  send  to  Europe,  me 
'n  my  six-shooter  just  went  along.  *No  shenanni- 
gan,  James/  says  I.  'We'll  just  wait  on  the  door 
step,  'n  protect  ye  when  ye  come  out.'  Well,  after  a 
few  minutes  he  comes  out,  'n  says,  'If  the  rest  o'  the 
lot  is  like  the  sample,  they'll  give  a  thousand  dollars 
a  ton  for  it.'  —  'Not  much,'  says  I  :  'they'll  have  it 
assayed,  and  they'll  make  a  bid  accordin',  that's  what 
they'll  do.'  An'  that's  what  they  did  do,  'n  gimme 
twenty  thousand  dollars  for  that  lot  of  ore,  rather  'n 
lemme  go.  Wouldn't  'a'  sold  it  for  that,  either,  only 
they  began  to  talk  about  the  mine,  'n  said  they'd 
probably  like  to  buy  her.  When  my  agent  told  me 
that,  I  says,  'Well,  I  hain't  no  partic'lar  objection. 
She's  a  good  mine,  'n  I  wouldn't  retire  from  her  for 
less  'n  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  If  they  wan't  her 
at  that  price,  they  can  take  her  —  or  they  can  leave 
her.  An'  if  you  sell  her,  James,'  says  I,  '  you'll  get  a 
thousand  on  top  o'  your  hundred.'  Well,  there  was 
big  talk  an'  lots  of  it  for  a  couple  o'  days;  but  I  kept 
quiet  'n  out  o'  sight,  'n  James  he  negotiated  till  you 


56  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

couldn't  rest.  Fust  thing  they  wanted  was  a  report, 
Sent  'em  one  that  the  old  man  wrote  and  printed  in 
<  The  Pactolus  Weekly  Nozzle/  The  old  man  is  hefty 
on  a  report :  he  jist  slings  the  ink,  now,  I  tell  ye ! 
About  all  he  kin  do." 

I  remarked  that  I  had  seen  the  report.  It  was 
indeed  an  extraordinary  sample,  even  of  that  extraor 
dinary  kind  of  literature.  It  abounded  in  gorgeous 
descriptions  of  the  beauty  of  the  natural  scenery,  the 
immense  display  of  geological  phenomena,  the  un 
limited  amount  of  "  yet  undiscovered  "  treasure  slum 
bering  beneath  the  rocky  surface,  the  salubrious  cli 
mate,  the  exactly  central  geographical  position  (proved 
by  drawing  a  circle  round  it  on  any  map),  and  the 
metropolitan  future,  of  Pactolus  district.  I  remem 
bered  particularly  the  glowing  conclusion  :  "  The 
Gulch,  to  the  golden  sands  of  which  this  marvelous 
region  owes  its  name,  has  long  ceased  to  yield  a  suita 
ble  auriferous  return  to  the  honest  hand  of  labor. 
[Note  by  the  editor  of  «  The  Weekly  Nozzle :  "  "  But 
it  will  pay  big  to  hydraulic."]  But  in  the  gold  and 
silver  veins  which  lie  along  certain  magnetic  lines  in 
the  rocks  there  are  treasures  surpassing  those  of  the 
Lydian  River,  and  which  will  be,  in  the  words  of  the 
great  Thucydides,  Ktema  es  aei,  —  a  thing  forever." 

Agamemnon  continued,  "  They  said  that  report 
wa'n't  enough :  so  I  sent  word  to  'em  to  send  up  their 
own  man;  'n  I  expect  you're  the  feller." 

I  replied  that  I  was  the  feller. 


AGAMEMNON.  57 

"  Thought  so  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  yer.  Well, 
now,  we'll  jest  licv  a  few  plain  words  about  this  busi 
ness,  '11  perhaps  they'll  save  you  the  trouble  o'  goiu' 
any  farther.  S'pose  yer  know  I've  got  to  pay  yer  fee. 
Left  the  money  in  bank  down  't  the  Bay." 

I  nodded  assent. 

"  S'pose  y'  expect  I'll  give  something  ex  try  if  you 
make  a  good  report,  'n  the  mine  gets  sold  —  hey?  " 

"Well,"  I  said  gravely,  "it  would  be  reasonable, 
wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  treasonable  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  steady  light  in  his 
gray  eyes,  as  he  turned,  and  looked  me  full  in  the 
face.  "I  don't  know  about  that.  But  it's  jest  impos 
sible —  d'ye  hear  that  ?  You  can  go  back  to  Frisco, 
unless  yer  want  to  examine  somebody  else's  mine : 
yer  can't  git  into  the  Agamemnon.  There's  goin'  to 
be  fair  play  with  her,  or  nothin'."  And  with  that  he 
turned  iiis  back  to  me. 

After  an  embarrassing  silence,  I  said,  "But,  Mr. 
O'Ballyhan,  you  made  the  offer,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Wanted  to  find  ye  out,  'n  I  found  ye  out,"  he 
replied  curtly,  without  deigning  to  look  at  me. 

"Well,"  I  rejoined,  "  I  wanted  to  find  you  out,  and 
I've  found  you  out.  I'm  very  glad  you  regard  it  as 
dishonorable  to  give  a  bribe.  If  you  had  really 
tendered  me  one,  I  should  have  reported  it  to  my 
clients,  and  advised  them  to  drop  the  business." 

"  Too  thin  !  "  was  Agamemnon's  sole  reply ;  and  I 
saw  on  Steve's  face  a  grin  of  intense  amusement  at 
my  discomfiture. 


58  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"  Look  here  !  "  said  T  as  a  last  resort,  "  I'll  leave  ifc 
to  Steve,  lie  knows  rne  ;  and  he'll  tell  you  that  J  am 
an  honest  man." 

Steve  could  hardly  resist  the  temptation  to  make 
matters  worse  by  a  dubious  ans\ver ;  but,  seeing  in 
my  face  that  the  trouble  might  be  serious,  he  changed 
his  tone,  and  gave  to  his  remarks  a  satisfactory  end. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  don't  know :  it's  my 
impression  that  he  stole  my  last  pipeful  of  Lone  Jack, 
and  smoked  it  himself  in  camp  on  the  Tuolunme; 
and  a  man  that  would  do  that — hey,  boys?  No: 
he's  all  right,  Young  Bullion :  he'll  do  the  square 
thing  by  you.  I  know  him." 

Young  Bullion  turned,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Put  it  there  !  "  he  said.  And  I  "  put  it  there,"  shak 
ing  hands  with  him  in  token  of  good  faith.  "  Yer 
see,"  he  continued  presently,  u  th'  ole  man'll  try  it  on. 
He's  a  disgrace  to  the  family,  he  is.  Don't  you  take 
nothin'  —  I  mean  no  promises  (he  hain't  got  nothin' 
else  to  give  you) — from  th'  ole  man.  I'm  try  in*  to 
reform  him,  I  am  :  swore  oft'  lots  c'  things  on  his 
account  ('n  for  some  other  partic'lar  reasons).  But 
soon's  any  stranger  comes  around,  th' ole  man  slumps 
back  agin  into  th' ole  ways,  —  goes  to  gamblin' an' 
drinkin'.  Ever  play  poker?  " 

I  said  I  had  no  knowledge  of  that  accomplishment. 

"Well,  I  can  play  it  with  any  man  in  Pactolus,  or 
anywrhere  else.  Th'  ole  man  taught  me  himself. 
But  I  swore  off  f 'm  gamblin,'  'n  I  got  all  the  boys  to 


AGAMEMNON.  59 

say  they  won't  play  with  th'  olc  man  :  so  he  nad  to 
shut  up.  They  wa'n't  very  sorry  to  promise  :  lie  used 
to  clean  'em  out  every  time.  But  it  wasn't  the 
square  thing;  'n  I  —  I  —  the  name  o'  the  O'Ballyhans 
is  goin' to  be  kept  "clean  after  this,  by  — !"  Was  I 
mistaken,  or  did  I  see  this  premature  young  person 
dash  a  tear  from  his  eye?  Instantly  I  heard  him 
mutter,  "  Thar,  now,  I've  swore  off  swearin',  'n  jist 
been  'n  almost  done  it  again  !  " 

I  need  hardly  say  that  by  this  time  I  was  much 
interested  in  the  strange  character  here  presented 
for  study.  With  mingled  curiosity  and  respect  I  set 
myself  to  win  his  confidence,  and  extract  an  outline 
of  his  history.  In  spite  of  all  his  preternatural 
shrewdness  and  coolness,  I  found  that  he  was  at 
heart  a  boy,  and  required  only  the  touch  of  sympathy 
and  appreciation  to  make  him  talk  freely.  For  more 
than  an  hour  he  ran  on,  with  a  queer  mixture  of 
simplicity  and  acuteness,  narrating  the  experiences 
of  an  uneventful  and  yet  heroic  life;  while  Stephen 
and  I  listened  without  comment,  except  that  the  stage- 
driver  nodded  occasionally  in  confirmation  of  some 
statements  that  came  within  his  own  knowledge,  or 
touched  up  his  leaders  with  crackling  emphasis  when 
his  feelings  were  particularly  aroused. 


CO  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

II. 

FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  LEARNED  that  Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan 
owed  his  classical  name  to  the  fancy  of  his  father,— 
a  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  a  careless, 
jolly  spendthrift,  who,  after  running  through  his  own 
inheritance  and  a  small  fortune  brought  him  by  his 
wife,  had  taken  sudden  leave  of  his  creditors,  and 
come  to  California  in  the  early  days,  after  the  dis 
covery  of  gold.  Plis  scraps  of  classical  and  mathe 
matical  learning  found  no  market  here.  He  had  no 
solid  attainments,  no  capacity  for  work,  and  no  con 
science  :  so,  without  much  resistance,  he  yielded  to 
the  downward  current,  and  became  a  gambler,  per 
haps  worse.  He  was  not  fit  to  be  an  honest  gambler, 
if  I  may  use  the  paradox  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  could 
not  rely  upon  skill  and  coolness  to  guarantee  him  a 
living  in  that  profession,  without  resort  to  cheating', 
for  he  speedily  became  a  drunkard  also;  and  no  suc 
cessful  gambler  can  afford  to  indulge  that  vice.  The 
result  was  inevitable, — a  vagabond  life,  interspersed 
with  scenes  of  exposure  and  disgrace.  From  one 
mining-camp  to  another  he  dragged  his  wife  and  the 
young  Agamemnon,  who,  born  in  the  midst  of  these 
debasing  associations,  grew  up  to  a  premature  knowl 
edge  of  evil,  and  an  utter  ignorance  of  any  higher 


AGAMEMNON.  61 

code    of    ethics   than    the    rude    life    of    the    minors 
illustrated. 

Young  Bullion  was  not  explicit  concerning  these 
darker  features  of  his  experience.  He  seemed  to 
avoid  details  with  a  sense  of  shame ;  and  I  fancied 
that  the  shame  was  of  recent  origin,  that  something 
had  lately  aroused  him  to  a  perception  of  the  disgrace, 
and  to  an  odd  resolution,  not  at  all  like  the  usual 
repentance  of  awakened  sinners,  to  clean  the  name  of 
the  O'Ballyhans.  What  this  cause  was  I  could  not 
gather..  He  was  silent  on  that  point.  But,  whatever 
it  was,  it  had  made  a  man  of  him  before  his  time. 
He  was  sixteen  years  old,  though  he  looked  both 
older  and.  younger.  He  showed  no  trace  of  Irish 
origin  in  his  talk,  wrhich  differed  from  the  mixed 
lingo  of  the  Pacific  coast,  only  in  a  freedom  from 
coarseness  and  profanity  which  evidently  cost  him 
some  effort.  I  inferred  that  this  also  was  a  recent 
change,  dating  from  the  time  when  he  had  "swore 
off  "  from  gambling  and  drinking,  and  had  put  his 
father  in  the  strait- jacket  of  filial  discipline.  Of  his 
mother  he  spoke  with  a  queer,  kindly  indifference, 
saying  that  she  "wasn't  much  account,"  had  no  "  sa- 
vey;"but  "th'  ole  man's  goin's-on  had  been  rough 
on  her."  He  regarded  his  father  as  an  "enfant  terri 
ble,"  an  unwelcome  responsibility,  the  management 
of  whom,  nevertheless,  gave  him  a  certain  sense  of 
pleasure  in  his  own  skill.  "TV  ole  man's  sharp," 
he  said  ;  "  but  he  ain't  no  match  for  me  !  " 


62  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

A  year  before  this,  the  O'Ballyhans,  with  slender 
stock  of  household  goods,  had  emigrated  to  Pactolus 
Gulch.  It  was  not  a  promising  field.  The  placer 
diggings  were  nearly  exhausted,  and  the  population 
had  nearly  all  departed.  But  there  was  business 
enough  still  (there  always  is)  for  one  liquor-saloon ; 
and  in  this  establishment  the  elder  O'Ballyhan  be 
came  barkeeper.  His  taste  for  whiskey  would  have 
made  him  an  unprofitable  servant ;  but  his  dexterity 
with  cards  made  him  useful  to  the  proprietor,  who 
pitted  him  against  all  comers  in  the  fashionable 
operation  of  "playing  for  the  drinks."  Now  that 
the  claims  in  the  Gulch  paid  so  poorly,  and  dust  was 
not  plenty,  the  gambling  of  the  Pactolus  people  sel 
dom  went  beyond  these  modest  stakes  ;  and  as  O'Bal 
lyhan  was  allowed  to  drink  only  what  he  could  earn 
in  this  way,  why,  the  more  he  drank,  the  better  for 
the  business. 

Meanwhile  the  boy,  so  far  as  T  could  make  out, 
had  turned  his  hand  to  whatever  he  could  find  in  the 
way  of  occasional  occupation.  He  had  been  a  super 
numerary  hostler  to  the  stage;  he  had  worked  a  while 
in  a  played-out 'placer-claim;  he  had  caught  trout  in 
the  North'  Fork,  above  the  place  where  the  tailings 
made  it  too  muddy  even  for  a  sucker  or  an  eel ;  he 
had  hunted  quails,  rabbits,  and  gophers,  and  some 
times  deer  ;  once  he  had  shot  a  grizzly  bear. 

When  he  mentioned  that  experience,  I  interrupted 
him  to  ask  for  further  particulars.  "  How  did  I  do 


AGAMEMNON.  63 

it?  "  said  he.  "  I  jist  walked  up  within  twenty  yards 
of  him,  'n  shot  him  in  the  mouth.  He  rolled  over 
quiet  enough.  Yer  see,  I  had  Jim  Knowles's  repeat- 
in'  rifle.  A  grizzly  ain't  nothin'  if  yer  have  a  repeatin' 
rifle,  'n  keep  cool.  T  that  shot  hadn't  fetched  him, 
there  was  seven  more  ready  for  him ;  'n  there  never 
was  a  grizzly  that  could  s waller  seven  ounce-balls  at 
one  mouthful." 

With  the  precarious  proceeds  of  these  industries, 
he  had  (as  I  managed  to  make  him  own)  kept  his 
mother  from  starvation ;  and  his  quick  wits  and  ready 
helpfulness  had  evidently  moved  all  the  Pactolians 
to  admiration  and  friendship.  He  hfid  never  taken 
much  to  book-learning,  having  rebelled  entirely  at  a 
languid  attempt  of  the  old  man  to  educate  him. 
"  Educate  !  "  said  he  contemptuously,  as  he  told  us 
about  it :  "  didn't  want  none  o'  his  kind.  Two  fellers 
in  one  family  slingin'  Latin,  'n  puttin'  on  the  heavy 
genteel,  'd  'a'  been  too  much  gravy  for  the  meat." 
But  I  gathered  that  there  was  a  school  now  at  Pacto- 
lus  of  which  he  had  a  very  high  opinion. 

"  Do  you  go  ?  "  I  asked,  forgetting,  for  the  moment, 
that  he  was  a  capitalist,  and  man  of  business. 

"  No,"  he  replied  gloomily  :  "  hain't  got  time.  But 
I  walk  over  there  afternoons  to  see  the  teacher." 

uls  he  a  very  good  teacher?  " 

"  It's  a  lady,"  he  said  shortly,  and  changed  the 
subject,  proceeding  to  tell  of  the  great  discovery 
which  had  in  six  months  brought  fresh  life  to  Pac- 


64  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

tolus  district,  and  changed  the  fate  of  more  than  one 
of  its  inhabitants ;  namely,  the  discovery  of  the  Aga 
memnon  lode,  and  the  inauguration  thereby  of  a  new 
era  of  prosperous  activity. 

It  was  the  old  story,  repeated  in  so  many  districts 
on  the  Pacific  coast  in  early  days.  Young  Bullion 
had  found  the  outcrop  of  the  lode  far  above  the  head 
of  the  Gulch,  and  had  pounded  up  a  sack-full  of  the 
strange,  dark  ore,  and  "  panned  "  it  in  vain  for  gold. 
Disappointed  but  curious,  he  had  carried  a  specimen 
of  it  to  the  saloon,  and  passed,  it  around  among  the 
loungers  who  sat  sociably  about  the  red-hot  stove. 
They  could  mike  nothing  of  it.  But  O'Ballyhan, 
senior,  who  was  mellow  .with  a  day's  professional 
work,  had  got  possession  of  it,  and  with  drunken  elo 
quence  pronounced  it  to  be  lapis  philosophorum,  the 
philosopher's  stone  ("  with  a  lot  of  other  Latin," 
added  Agamemnon),  and  finally,  seizing  the  poker 
for  a  wand,  had  opened  the  door  of  the  stove,  tossed 
the  specimen  into  the  blazing  fire,  and  declared  him 
self  to  be  an  alchemist  engaged  in  the  manufacture 
of  aurum  potabile.  This,  at  least,  is  my  version  of  it, 
based  on  Young  Bullion's  attempt  to  repeat  the  jar 
gon  of  his  drunken  dad.  True,  the  ancient  alchemist 
did  not  make  aurum  potabile  in  the  fire,  but  over  it; 
not  by  fusion,  but  by  solution ;  but  O'Ballyhan  was 
drunk,  and  so  may  have  departed  from  the  prescrip 
tion.  Nobody  cared  for  his  vagaries.  Only  his  son, 
when  tho  others  had  departed,  raked  over  the  embers 


AGAMEMNON.  C5 

to  recover  his  specimen,  and  found  it  studded  with 
globules  of  exuded  silver. 

lie  was  too  shrewd  to  make  immediate  outcry  over 
the  discovery.  For  several  days  he  kept  it  to  him 
self,  while  he  meditated  thoroughly  his  plan  of  pro 
cedure.  Then,  taking  into  his  counsel  a  miner  who 
had  had  some  experience  in  "quartz,"  he  arranged  a 
programme,  which  was  carried  out  to  the  letter.  A 
meeting  of  citizens  was  held  ;  the  startling  announce 
ment  of  the  existence  of  silver  veins  in  the  neigh 
borhood  was  proclaimed ;  and  a  code  of  laws  was 
proposed.  The  assembly,  being  fiercely  eager  to 
adjourn  and  go  "  prospecting,"  passed  the  laws  in  a 
hurry  ;  and  the  first  location  recorded  was  the  Aga 
memnon.  A  week  later,  every  chunk  or  bowlder  of 
rock,  in  place  or  out  of  place,  streaked,  spotted,  black, 
or  white,  that  showed  itself  on  that  mountain-slope, 
had  been  "  discovered,"  named,  and  recorded.  A  fine 
crop  of  litigation  and  pistol-shooting  about  disputed 
titles  had  been  planted.  But  the  title  to  the  Aga 
memnon  no  one  disputed:  its  discoverer  was  the 
benefactor  of  the  district.  The  saloon-keeper,  deeply 
impressed  by  the  incident  of  the  stove,  advanced  five 
hundred  dollars  for  a  fractional  interest  in  the  claim  ; 
and  with  this  money  Young  Bullion  began  operations. 
But,  foreseeing  that  it  would  not  last  long,  he  called 
the  miners  together,  and  proposed,  that,  instead  of 
wasting  their  labor  each  on  his  own  mine,  they  should 
unite  to  open  the  Agamemnon  to  a  considerable, 


6G  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

depth,  extract  a  lot  of  ore,  send  it  to  the  Bay,  and 
sell  it  for  the  benefit  of  all  parties.  This  they  had 
done  with  unexpected  success ;  and  Young  Bullion 
had  been  able  to  send  by  express  from  San  Francisco 
a  good  round  sum  for  each  of  them,  besides  opening 
the  negotiation  far  the  sale  of  his  mine.  Meanwhile 
the  news  had  spread,  and  the  tide  of  population  had 
turned  again  to  flood.  Empty  houses  were  inhabited 
once  more;  the  hotel  was  re-opened;  ''The  Weekly 
Nozzle  "  (christened  in  honor  of  a  now  defunct 
hydraulic  scheme)  began  to  play  again,  and  talked 
of  expanding  into  a  daily  under  the  title  of  "The 
Morning  Blast ;  "  and  the  schoolhouse  had  once  more 
a  teacher. 

Listening  to  Agamemnon's  story  made  the  time 
pass  rapidly  ;  and,  before  we  were  aware,  we  were 
at  the  next  station,  where  the  horses  were  to  be 
changed,  and  the  passengers  fed. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  have  omitted  to  mention  that 
the  stage  was  wrell  filled  inside,  but  that  the  pas 
sengers  were  not  a  particularly  interesting  company, 
with  the  exception  of  one, — a  singularly  intelligent 
and  refined-looking  young  woman,  wTho  had  joined  us 
at  the  last  station  before  that  at  which  I  went  out 
side.  A  new-comer  al\vays  has  a  great  advantage  in 
such  circumstances.  Even  an  ordinary  woman,  if 
neatly  dressed,  and  spotless  as  to  collar  and  cuffs, 
seems  almost  a  saint  or  an  angel  by  comparison  with 
a  thoroughly  dusty  load  of  travel-worn  sufferers. 


AGAMEMNON.  67 

But  this-  lady  was  not  an  ordinary  person.  There 
was  a  —  what's  the  use  of  trying  to  describe  her  ?  I 
will  at  least  postpone  the  desperate  task;  and  per 
haps  the  progress  of  my  story  may  make  it  unneces 
sary.  Suffice  it  to  say  here,  that  an  hour's  sitting 
opposite  her  in  the  stage  had  quite  filled  my  mind 
with  a  sort  of  tender  curiosity  as  to  her  character, 
her  history,  and  her  errand  into  the  rude  society  of 
the  Sierra.  But  Young  Bullion,  with  his  quaint  and 
vigorous  narrative,  had  driven  out  her  image. 

It  returned,  however,  with  fresh  force,  when  we  all 
alighted  for  dinner,  and  I  hastened  gallantly  to  help 
her  out  of  the  coach,  on  which  occasion,  let  me  say, 
I  observed  that  her  foot  and  hand  were  small,  while 
her  step  and  clasp  were  firm.  (There's  so  much  of 
my  description  unconsciously  done  for  me,  thank 
goodness !) 

But  surely  it  was  not  at  sight  of  me  that  she 
blushed,  and  looked  confused  ?  ]^~o  :  it  was  at  some 
one  behind  me,  to  wit,  Young  Bullion ;  and,  upon 
my  word,  he  was  blushing  too,  unless  his  complexion 
deceived  me.  The  next  instant  my  fair  unknown 
(yes,  she  was  fair :  put  that  down  in  the  descrip 
tion)  walked  straight  up  to  him,  and  said  in  her 
peculiarly  sweet,  clear  voice  (another  item).  "  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  O'Ballyhan  ?  Have  you  had  a  pleas 
ant  journey  ?  It  is  quite  an  unexpected  pleasure  to 
meet  you  here.  I  have  been  spending  a  day  or  two 
visiting  some  friends  in  the  Valley."  [This  with  a 


68  CAMP  AND  CABIN.  ' 

graceful  but  indefinite  gesture,  \vhich  might  indicate 
any  thing  from  Los  Angeles  to  Chico.]  "We  have 
had  a  little  vacation,  to  get  a  new  floor  put  in  the 
schoolhouse." 

It  struck  me  that  she  seemed  a  trifle  anxious  to 
answer  his  possible  questions  before  he  asked  them. 
If  so,  she  need  not  have  feared  embarrassment  from 
any  inquisitiveness  on  his  part.  In  her  presence 
Young  Bullion  the  capitalist.  Agamemnon  the  ruler 
of  men,  was  merely  an  awkward  boy.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  introduce  me,  at  my  request.  But  style 
was  not  important  under  the  circumstances;  and  I 
was  satisfied  when  I  found  myself  on  a  footing  of 
agreeable  acquaintance  with  Miss  Mary  Carleton,  the 
Pactolus  school-teacher. 

At  the  table  I  managed  to  improve  a  good  many 
opportunities  in  the  way  of  "  passing  "  the  potatoes, 
and  such  delicacies ;  and,  as  Young  Bullion  closely 
watched  and  eagerly  imitated  these  courtesies,  I 
fancy  Miss  Mary  was  waited  upon  as  never  before. 

All  the  company  resumed  their  places  at  the  accus 
tomed  signal  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  journey  passed 
quietly  enough.  Agamemnon  apparently  did  not 
wish  to  talk,  and,  as  evening  approached,  rolled 
himself  up  and  went  to  sleep  again  on  the  upper 
seat.  The  shadows  deepened  in  the  canons ;  and  the 
red  evening-glow  slipped  upward  on  the  hills,  and 
faded  out  at  last  from  their  summits  into  the  sky, 
where  it  lingered  yet  a  while  before  giving  place 
entirely  to  the  starlight. 


AGAMEMNON.  69 

Stephen  and  I  chatted  sedately  and  at  intervals, 
until  the  spirit  of  the  time  charmed  us  to  silence,  and 
\ve  smoked  our  pipes  in  placid  re  very.  At  midnight 
everybody  was  aroused  ;  for  with  cracking  of  whip, 
and  barking  of  dogs,  and  clattering  of  hoofs,  and 
rattling  of  wheels,  we  drove  up  to  the  Pactolus  hotel ; 
and  nobody  was  going  any  farther.  I  lodged  at  the 
hotel,  and  saw  no  more  of  Young  Bullion  that  night. 
Tired  as  I  was,  I  noted,  with  a  slight  touch  of  envy, 
that  he  re-entered  the  stage,  for  the  purpose,  as  I 
inferred,  of  "seeing  Miss  Mary  home." 

Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Agamemnon  ap 
peared,  to  "talk  business."  We  walked  through 
the  single  street  of  the  town,  along  the  edge  of 
the  irregular  excavation  which  had  been  Nature's 
"  gulch,"  and  had  become  man's  "  diggin's,"  until 
the  last  house  was  reached.  It  was  the  schoolhouse  ; 
and  Miss  Mary,  standing  in  the  doorway,  just  about 
to  ring  the  "  second  bell,"  waved  us  a  greeting  as  we 
passed.  (She  had  a  pretty  arm,  too  !)  On  a  little 
height  beyond,  we  paused,  and  turned  to  enjoy  the 
very  picturesque  prospect  of  houses  and  pine-covered 
hills,  great  red  excavations,  busy  miners,  and  rolling 
foot-hills  piled  behind  and  below  all 

"  That's  whar  the  O'Ballyhans  live,"  said  my  com 
panion,  pointing  to  the  house  nearest  the  schoolhouse, 
—  a  low,  large  log-cabin. 

"  And  where  does  Miss  Carleton  live  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  boards  with  us,"  he  replied  curtly,  and  faced 
about  to  resume  the  march. 


70  CAMP  AND  GAVIN. 

The  miners  of  the  West  have  a  notion  that  the 
richest  mines  are  to  be  sought  in  the  most  inacces 
sible  places.  How  far  this  might  be  recognized,  if 
otherwise  stated,  as  a  fact  with  a  scientific  reason, 
I  will  not  stop  to  explain.  At  all  events,  it  was  true 
of  the  Agamemnon,  which  occupied  a  very  high  and 
very  bare  mountain-spur  of  porphyritic  rock,  belong 
ing  properly  to  a  more  eastern  belt  than  the  granite 
and  slate  of  the  gulch  proper.  A  lower  summit  and 
a  heavy  belt  of  pine-timber  separated  this  desert 
height  from  the  settlement.  One  might  say  that  the 
characteristic  scenery  of  two  States  was  here  brought 
close  together.  Nevada  peeped  over  a  gap  in  the 
edge  of  the  Sierra  into  California. 

I  began  my  examination  at  once,  and  soon  became 
satisfied  that  it  was  indeed  a  mine  of  extraordinary 
value.  How  this  conclusion  was  reached  I  do  not 
need  to  describe  here.  But  it  was  only  after  several 
visits,  and  many  careful  samplings  and  measure 
ments,  that  my  opinion  became  definite  as  well  as 
positive.  Even  this  definite  judgment  was  held  in 
abeyance  to  await  the  results  of  the  assays  of  the 
samples,  to  be  made  at  San  Francisco. 


AGAMEMNON  71 

ITT, 

THE    PRODIGAL    FATHER. 

Ox  this  first  day  \ve  spent  but  a  couple  of  hours  in 
and  about  the  mine,  and  then  returned  to  town,  \vhere 
I  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  call  on  the  O'Bally- 
hans.  It  was  long  past  the  dinner-hour.  We  had 
shared  the  miners'  meal  at  their  t4  boarding-house  " 
on  the  mountain.  As  we  passed  the  schoolhouse,  the 
hum  of  reciting  voices  told  that  Miss  Mary  was  at 
work.  Presently  we  entered  the  rude  mansion  of 
Agamemnon's  family. 

The  door  opened  directly  into  a  large  sitting-room ; 
and,  as  Young  Bullion  pushed  it  open  without  cere 
mony,  we  surprised  the  paternal  O'Ballyhan,  sitting 
before  a  pine  table,  and  lazily  engaged,  pipe  in  mouth, 
in  some  sort  of  solitary  game  of  cards. 

"  At  it  again?  "  said  Agamemnon  angrily  ;  "  rn  you 
hain't  copied  them  papers,  neither  !  " 

"  Hem  acu  tetigisti :  bedad  !  ye've  touched  the  thing 
acutely,  Aggy,  me  boy  :  et  nihil  tettr/isti  quod  nan  orna- 
ris//,  an'  ye  niver  touched  any  thing  that  ye  didn't 
adorn.  Come,  now,  that's  rather  nate,  av'  ye  only 
understood  it."  This  airy  reply  was  thrown  oft',  like 
a  soap-bubble  from  a  pipe,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand 
and  an  affectation  of  easy  unconcern.  Nevertheless, 


72  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

the  speaker  managed  with  the  same  gesture  to  sweep 
the  cards  into  a  drawer ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  to 
see  that  the  theatrical  sire  was  really  in  awe  of  his 
practical  son. 

The  latter  paid  no  attention  to  the  classical  effusion 
with  which  he  had  been  greeted,  but  continued  stern 
ly,  "  Been  drinkin'  too.  Look  here,  ole  man,  this  has 
got  to  stop.  You  hear  me  !  " 

"  Vultus  est  index  animi"  responded  the  awful  dad  : 
"  sure  it's  me  physiognomy  betrays  me  sowi.  In  vino 
veritas:  I  couldn't  tell  ye  a  lie,  me  boy.  Ecce  signum! 
there's  the  bottle ;  elieu  !  quantum  mutatus  ab  illo  !  an' 
divil  a  bit  left  in  it !  " 

•Agamemnon  might  have  proceeded  to  further  in 
quiry  and  rebuke;  but,  suddenly  recollecting  my  pres 
ence,  he  dropped,  for  the  time,  the  process  of  family 
discipline,  and  introduced  me  as  "  the  quartz-sharp 
from  San  Francisco." 

The  O'Ballyhan  rose  with  exuberant  cordiality, 
and  skipped  towards  me  as  if  I  were  his  partner  in  a 
contra-dance.  I  despair  of  depicting  him.  Imagine 
a  grizzly,  rummy,  bleared  visage,  surmounted  by  a 
shock  of  bristling  gray  hair ;  a  short,  fat  figure  clad 
in  a  most  dilapidated  but  once  gorgeous,  large-fig 
ured,  flowing  dressing-gown,  which  did  not  pretend 
to  conceal  a  very  dirty  shirt ;  tight  pantaloons  of  the 
cut  and  the  pattern  that  were  the  rage  a  score  of 
years  ago  ;  and  a  pair  of  slippers  that  flapped  the  floor 
at  every  stop:  in  short,  a  person  without  the  slightest 


AGA  MENNON.  73 

remaining  trace  of  dandyism.  Imagine  this  being  to 
talk  and  move  with  immense  affectation  of  gentle 
manly  style,  and  you  may  gain  some  conception  of  the 
O'Ballyhan.  I  ought  to  add  that  his  hands  would 
have  been  white  if  they  had  been  clean,  and  that  his 
pipe  was  a  common,  short  black  "cuddy."  His  pro 
fuse  quotations  of  trite  scraps  of  Latin,  usually  ac 
companied  by  free  translations  into  English  with  a 
brogue,  added  to  the  bizarre  and  incongruous  effect  of 
his  whole  appearance. 

"  Salce  .'  "  he  exclaimed :  "  ye're  welcome  to  the 
castle  o'  the  O'Ballyhans.  Non  sumus  quales  eramus  : 
we're  not  ourselves  at  all  since  we  left  our  swate 
ancistral  hall,  natale  solum,  so  to  spake.  But  ccelum 
non  animum  mutant :  it's  the  climate,  and  not  the  char 
t/ether,  they  change  " 

"  Qui  frans  mare  currunt,  who  come  to  Castle  Gar 
den,"  said  I,  finishing  his  quotation  in  his  own  style. 

"Dies  fauxtus,  cretd  notandus  I  "  exclaimed  the  old 
scapegrace,  with  a  gesture  as  if  he  w^ould  embrace 
me  :  "  it's  a  blissed  day  it  is,  an'  we'll  mark  it  wid 
chalk ;  that  is  to  say,  wid  something  better.  Sure, 
Aggy,  me  boy,  ye  won't  grudge  yer  old  father  a  glass 
to  mark  the  day.  Dale  obolum  Belisario :  there's  no 
use  translatin'  that  to  ye,  ye  hard-hearted  spalpeen." 

The  last  part  of  this  speech  was  delivered  in  an 
altered  tone,  caused  by  a  frown  and  shake  of  the  head 
from  Agamemnon,  who  at  this  point  turned  to  leave 
the  room.  "  Where's  Mother?  "  said  he. 


74  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"In  partis  inferior  thus,  it's  the  back-yard  I  mane, 
sittin'  in  the  rockin'-chair  \vid  her  otium  cum  digni- 
tate  an'  a  favorite  author." 

True  enough,  as  Agamemnon  opened  a  door  oppo 
site  to  that  by  -which  we  had  entered,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  matron,  enjoying  the  pleasant  after 
noon  air  in  the  manner  described.  Her  rocking-chair 
was  the  genuine  article,  city  made,  and  doubtless 
hauled,  with  other  household  belongings,  many  a 
weary  mile  through  ono  family  pilgrimage  after 
another.  It  bore  the  scars  of  age  and  trouble ;  but 
it  was  still  able  to  rock,  though  in  a  somewhat  rick 
ety  way.  Mrs.  O'Ballyhan  was  maintaining  this  mo 
tion  by  timely  application  of  her  toes  to  the  ground, 
while  her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  a  pamphlet,  of 
which  I  could  only  see  that  the  cover  was  yellow. 
Then  the  door  closed  behind  Agamemnon,  and  I  was 
left  with  the  sinful  sire. 

"  It's  a  foine  boy,"  he  began,  "  but  clane  spoilt  wid 
consate,  an'  disrespict  o'  payrints.  Sequitur  patrem 
liaud  passibus  equis  —  he  takes  after  his  father,  but  he 
can't  kape  up;  and  it  irritates  him.  Nori  tarn  Mi 
nerva  quam  Mercurio :  it's  business  he  manes,  an'  not 
learnin'.  But  he  wasn't  born  wid  a  rale  jaynius  for 
business,  non  nascitur  fit,  —  faith  that's  a  nate  one  too, 
—  an'  it's  mesilf  '11  show  him  a  thing.  Business  is 
it  ?  Negotium  f  Si  negotium  quceris  circumspice.  Siste 
viator!  Av'  ye're  travelin'  on  business,  talk  wid  the 
O'Ballyhan." 


AGAMEMNON.  75 

Here  he  assumed  a  significant  air,  which  convinced 
me  that  he  intended  some  confidential  communica 
tion.  Suspecting  at  the  same  time  that  the  tawdry 
adornments  of  Latin  quotations  and  misquotations  in 
his  discourse  were  deliberately  affected,  I  said,  "  Well, 
Mr.  O'Ballyhan,  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  about 
the  business  on  which  I  am  traveling,  it  is  my  busi 
ness  to  hear  you.  But  we  shall  save  time  if  we 
confine  ourselves  to  English." 

"  Lex  loci"  said  the  incorrigible  scamp,  in  a  final 
effort  to  impose  upon  me:  "it's  the  custom  o'  the 
country.  These  barbarians,  damnatl  a<l  metalla,  con- 
dimned  to  work  in  the  mines,  so  to  spake,  pretind  to 
talk  nothin'  but  English,  an'  a  voile  mess  they  make 
o'  that  too.  But  /YfcVrt  est  alea  in  medias  res:  I'll  begin 
wid  the  business  immajitly,  an'  it's  dumb  in  the  dead 
languages  I'll  be  to  plaze  ye,  till  1  have  the  honor  to 
resave  ye  in  Ballyhan  Castle,  County  Clare,  wid  me 
complate  edition  o'  the  Auctores  Classic!  ad  Usum 
Del/jhini  in  the  bookcase  behind  our  two  selves,  an* 
the  amphora,  wid  the  sugar  and  the  hot  vvather,  on  the 
table  afore  us." 

After  all,  he  seemed  to*take  so  much  squalid  com 
fort  in  his  Latin,  that  I  was  half  sorry  I  had  tried  to 
cut  it  short.  But  the  voice  of  Agamemnon  was  heard 
outside ;  and  the  old  man  had  only  time  to  say, 
"  Whisht ! ''  I'll  mate  ye  sub  rosa  (beggin'  your  par 
don)  to-night  in  the  little  grane-room  at  the  back  o' 
the  International  saloon,  and  tell  ye  what's  important, 


7G  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

if  true  (an'  true  it  is)  ;  an'  in  the  best  of  English  I'll 
tell  it,  on  the  \vurrd  of  an  Oirish  jintleman  !  "  Then 
the  door  opened,  and  Agamemnon  ushered  in  his 
mother. 

After  making  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  O'Ballyhan, 
I  was  lost  in  wonder,  that  from  such  a  couple  the 
keen,  energetic,  and  straightforward  son  could  have 
sprung.  It  was  a  clear  case  of  what  the  philosophers 
call  atavism, — the  re-appearance,  in  some  remote 
descendant,  of  ancestral  qualities  which  are  entirely 
wanting  in  the  intermediate  generations.  Doubtless, 
I  reflected,  the  stimulating  atmosphere  of  this  newest 
New  World  had  developed  the  dormant  germs  of 
character  in  Young  Bullion. 

Few  words  will  suffice  for  Mrs.  O'Ballyhan.  She 
was,  perhaps,  the  most  utterly  negative,  washed-out 
woman  I  ever  met.  In  all  my  observation  of  her  I 
detected  only  two  feelings  that  had  survived  the 
otherwise  complete  wreck  of  will  and  emotion; 
namely,  her  appetite  for  novel-reading,  and  her  ad-- 
miration  for  her  humbug  of  a  husband.  Toward 
Agamemnon,  whose  industry  and  executive  ability 
were  the  only  support  of  tlie  family,  she  entertained, 
apparently,  only  the  mournful  sentiment  that  he  was 
not  like  his  father.  I  tried  once  to  converse  with  her 
on  the  subject  of  a  sensational  romance  which  she  had 
just  been  reading,  and  the  result  convinced  me  that 
she  did  not  remember  a  word  or  scene  of  it.  She  was 
like  a  drunkard,  who  tastes  his  liquor  only  for  a  brief 


AGAMEMNON.  77 

instant  while  he  swallows  it,  and  can  not  recall  its 
flavor  in  his  craving  for  more. 

I  wondered  who  cooked  and  washed,  —  surely  not 
this  mere  echo  of  a  woman?  —  and  who  maintained 
the  general  order  of  the  house,  the  interior  of  which 
was  by  no  means  so  slovenly  in  appearance  as  its 
nominal  master  and  mistress.  Two  windows  mutely 
answered  my  two  mental  queries.  Through  one  of 
them  I  saw  John  Chinaman  carrying  an  armful  of 
wood  to  the  kitchen ;  through  the  other,  Miss  Mary 
Carleton,  briskly  returning  from  school. 

I  was  curious  to  see  what  sort  of  conversation  could 
come  of  such  a  strange  mixture  of  ingredients. 
Would  the  O'Ballyhan  continue  to  spout  maudlin 
classics,  and  his  spouse  sit  in  rapt  vacuity,  with  her 
finger  in  the  place  where  she  had  left  off  reading? 
Would  Agamemnon  talk  about  the  mine,  which  must 
be  Greek  to  the  school-teacher,  and  the  school-teacher 
discourse  concerning  topics  that  must  be  equally 
Greek  to  Agamemnon? 

"Greek  to  Agamemnon!"  The  wrhimsical  coinci 
dence  carried  my  thought  further.  Of  course  Miss 
Mary  would  have  tact,  and  would  speak  with  Aga 
memnon  in  his  own  tongue  as  it  were.  A  superior 
being  like  her  would  know  how  to  come  down  to  the 
level  of  half-grown  natures.  Then  I  found  that  I 
was  forgetting  the  whole  race  of  O'Ballyhans,  and 
thinking  with  all  my  might  of  the  pretty  school 
teacher;  and  then  —  the  door  opened,  and  she  stood 


78  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

like  a  picture  against  the  background  of  pine-woods 
and  sky. 

She  did  not  enter,  but  said  she  was  going  to  the 
post-office  to  mail  a  letter.  I  offered  to  accompany 
her ;  and  she  assented  graciously,  observing,  that,  as 
the  office  was  next  door  to  the  hotel,  it  would  not  take 
me  out  of  my  way.  So,  making  an  appointment  with 
Agamemnon  for  the  following  morning,  I  took  leave 
of  the  O'Ballyhans. 

We  walked  slowly  down  the  street  in  the  slant  sun 
shine.  What  we  said  as  we  walked,  I  think  is  hardly 
worth  repetition.  Indeed,  I  remember  of  it  only  ho\v 
hard  I  tried  to  be  agreeable,  and  how  neatly  she  foiled 
my  attempts  to  learn  any  thing  about  herself. 

After  supper,  as  I  sat  lazily  on  the  porch,  watching 
a  dog-fight  in  the  "middle  distance,"  I  became  aware 
of  the  presence  of  the  O'Ballyhan,  who  had  come 
from  his  mansion  by  the  perilous  road  of  the  gulch 
itself  to  avoid  the  keen  eyes  of  Agamemnon,  or  the 
greetings  of  tell-tale  acquaintances.  Everybody  knew 
that  he  was  under  filial  surveillance,  and  in  process  of 
reform  against  his  will ;  and  there  were  thoughtless 
persons  who  would  not  have  hesitated  to  ask  him,  in 
a  too  sonorous  and  repetitious  way,  whether  he  had  a 
pass  from  his  son  to  be  out  after  dark. 

"Bedad!"he  said  in  a  stage-whisper,  as  he  came 
suddenly  upon  me  out  of  the  shadows,  "  it's  hard 
worrk  I  had  to  lave  'em  behind,  domus  et  placens  uxor, 
an'  thim  sharp  eyes  o'  the  school-misthress  an'  me 


AGAMEMNON.  79 

firrst-borrn.  Av'  they  hadn't  fell  a-talkin'  \vid  wan 
another,  actum  est  de  Repitblica,  it  would  'a'  been  all 
up  wid  the  O'Ballyhan.  But  I  gev  'era  the  slip ; 
an'  the  O'Ballyhan  kapes  his  worrd  —  non  sine  pul- 
vere,  not  widout  a  dale  o'  throuble.  Sure  I  came 
widin  an  ace  of  findin'  meself  paddlin'  about  in  yur- 
ghe  vasto  in  the  ould  hydthraulic  reservoir.  A  'rare 
swimmer '  I'd  'a'  been  —  an'  that's  a  nate  thing  too, 
'av'  ye  comprehind  it !  " 

I  was  in  no  mood  for  the  old  fellow's  discursive 
conversation,  and  I  brought  him  peremptorily  to  biisi- 
ness.  Thereupon  he  led  the  way  to  the  neighboring 
saloon,  and,  entering  by  a  back-door,  showed  me  into 
a  room  of  considerable  size,  in  which  a  motley  crowd 
was  gathered  about  a  green-baize-covered  table,  intent 
upon  gambling.  No  one  paid  attention  to  us;  al 
though  the  O'Ballyhan,  following  an  impulse  which 
he  could  not  resist,  paused  at  the  table,  and  stood  on 
tiptoe,  to  watch  the  game  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
players. 

"Maybe  ye'd  loike  to  try  yer  luck,"  he  whispered. 
"  Audaces  fortuna  juvat,  the  bould  boy's  the  lucky  wan  ! 
Or  ye  moight  make  use  o'  my  supayrior  skill  an' 
expayrience,  by  permittin'  me  the  honor  to  invist  a 
small  amount  for  ye?" 

I  shook  my  head  sternly,  and  motioned  him  away. 

"  Ah,  thin,  it's  a  comforthable  drop  ye'd  prefer.  Ad 
utrumque  paratm  —  the  O'Ballyhan's  ready  to  accom 
modate  ye."  He  withdrew  me  to  a  small  table  in  a 


80  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

remote  corner,  and,  disappearing  for  a  moment,  re 
turned  with  two  glasses  full  of  some  variety  of  alco 
holic  "mixed  drink,"  such  as  the  seasoned  palates 
of  Pactolus  required.  When  I  declined  to  join  him, 
he  proceeded  in  due  course  to  perform  duty  for  both 
of  us,  and,  as  I  found  afterwards,  at  my  expense. 
("  D'ye  think,"  said  the  barkeeper  forcibly,  "  that 
we'd  'a'  trusted  that  old  galoot  for  half  a  dozen 
drinks,  if  he  hadn't  ordered  for  a  respectable  gent?  ") 

After  all  these  preliminaries,  he  began  to  develop 
his  important  communication.  It  was  twofold  :  first, 
he  wanted  to  bribe  me;  secondly,  he  tried  to  black 
mail  my  clients  through  me.  He  had  the  power  to 
destroy  the  value  of  the  title  to  the  Agamemnon  lode, 
and  would  use  it  if  he  were  not  bought  off.  To  this 
I  replied,  "Very  well.  If  there  is  any  such  trouble 
about  the  title,  I  shall  advise  my  clients  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  of  course  I  shall  tell  your 
son  the  ground  of  my  unfavorable  decision. " 

At  this  he  began  to  weep,  with  whisky  and  emotion, 
and  lapsed  into  Latin,  from  which  his  strictly  busi 
ness  communication  had  been  comparatively  free. 
"  Est  qucedam  jiere  voluptas,  there's  a  certain  relayf 
in  tares,"  quoth  he:  "hinc  illce  lachrymce.  But  ye 
wouldn't  tell  the  boy,  now,  nee  prece  nee  pretio,  not  for 
love  nor  money.  Sure,  he'd  murther  me."  And,  in 
his  dismay  over  this  prospect,  he  abandoned  his  plan 
of  operations,  and  confessed  that  his  claim  to  the  title 
of  the  mine  consisted  merely  in  the  fact  that  Aga- 


AGAMEMNON.  81 

memnon  was  a  minor,  and  that  he  was  consequently 
himself  the  real  owner.  After  which  I  had  to  help 
him  home. 

As  I  turned  away  from  his  door,  with  his  "  Serus  in 
ccdum  redeas,  may  ye  live  a  thousand  yares,  an'  spind 
all  yer  avenin's  in  improvin'  conversation  wid  the 
O'Ballvhan !  "  sounding  in  my  ears,  I  saw  through  a 
window  Miss  Mary  Carle  ton  in  her  own  room.  She 
sat,  pen  in  hand,  with  a  half-written  letter  before  her. 
Her  face  was  raised,  and  her  eyes  were  turned  upward. 
AVas  she  thinking  of  some  absent  friend,  or  only  hunt 
ing  after  a  suitable  adjective?  1  know  not;  but  I 
know  that  she  had  a  beautiful  profile. 


IV. 

THE    SCHOOL-TEACHER. 

I  FELT  it  my  duty,  on  the  following  day,  to  call 
Young  Bullion's  attention  to  the  possible  defect  in 
his  title  to  the  mine  which  bore  his  name.  He 
chuckled  with  a  knowing  air,  and,  instead  of  reply 
ing  to  the  point,  at  once  began  to  tease  me  about 
my  interview  with  his  father. 

"  Th'  ole  man  show  ye  how  to  play  cards  ?  " 

"  No  :  I  didn't  choose  to  learn." 


82  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

"  Stuck  ye  for  the  drinks,  hey  ?  I  knowed  it  when 
I  see  yer  towin'  him  home." 

"  For  his  drinks.  Yes :  I  must  confess  I  was  obliged 
to  pay  for  them,  or  make  trouble.  But  how  did  you 
happen  to  see  us  ?  I  thought  you  were  all  abed, 
except  Miss  Carleton.  There  was  a  light  in  her 
room." 

"  Oh  !  T  was  jest  prowlin'  around,  'n  thinkin'  matters 
over  —  who  does  she  keep  a-writin'  to,  'n  stoppin,'  'n 
cryin'  ?  That's  what  I  want  ter  know  ! "  he  added 
fiercely. 

With  sublime  virtue  I  replied  that  I  didn't  know, 
and  that  perhaps  it  was  none  of  our  business. 

44  Ke-retY,"  said  Young  Bullion:  "  it's  none  'o  yours. 
But  it's  my  business  when  she  cries,  now,  you  bet! 
She  ain't  a-goin'  to  cry  if  Agamemnon  O'Ballyhan 
can  help  it." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Ain't  a  man  in  this  camp  as  knowrs.  She  jest 
come  down  on  the  camp  out  o'  the  sky,  's  ef  she  was 
sent.  Ye  see,  when  things  got  livelier,  on  account  o' 
the  quartz,  the  boys  said  we  orter  start  up  the  school- 
house  agin.  Some  on  'em  was  for  havin'  church  too, 
right  away  ;  said  it  looked  more  like  civ'l'zation  :  'n 
the  others  said  no,  they  couldn't  afford  to  run  a  fust- 
class  parson,  an'  they  warn't  goin'  to  have  no  cheap 
sardine  of  a  parson  to  bring  the  gospel  into  con 
tempt.  Nor  they  couldn't  agree  on  the  kind  o'  church, 
to  begin  with.  Some  of  'em  up  '11  said  they  was 


AGAMEMNON.  83 

Catholics,  an'  some  was  Methodists,  'n  so  on  ;  'n, 
afore  the  meetin'  that  we  had  to  consider  the  ques 
tion  come  to  ajourn,  there  was  a  dozen  religions  a-cuss- 
in'  one  another,  where  nobody  knowed,  up  to  that 
time,  there  was  ary  one.  So  they  broke  up  in  a  row  ; 
'n  the  next  day  a  committee  come  round  to  me,  'n 
said  the  camp  was  goin'  to  leave  it  to  me,  'cause  my 
head  was  level,  'n  I  hadn't  got  no  prejudices. 

"'Well,  gentlemen.'  says  I,  '  yer  wrong  than  ye 
hain't  allowed  for  curiosity.  I  never  was  inside  of  a 
church  while  she  was  in  operation;  'n  I'm  o'  good 
mind  to  give  it  a  trial.  But  we'll  wait  'n  see  how 
the  mines  turn  out,  'n  we'll  get  the  school  to  produ- 
cin'  reg'lar,  'n  at  the  same  time  we  can  prospect 
around,  'n  stake  out  for  a  church.'  Then  they  had 
another  meeting,  'n  'lected  me  chairman  o'  the  com 
mittee  on  education  'n  religion.  Th'  ole  man,  he 
thought  he'd  got  a  soft  thing,  'n  was  going  to  be 
principal  o'  the  academy.  But  I  sot  on  him.  'N  in 
a  day  or  two  along  come  Miss  Carleton,  'n  said  she 
was  a  candidate.  Well,  we  hed  a  meetin'  o'  the  com 
mittee,  'n  they  asked  her  fur  her  references;  'n  she 
give  one  o'  her  looks,  ye  know,  'n  said  right  out, 
straight  'n  clear,  '  Gentlemen,'  says  she,  'fur  reasons 
o'  my  own,  I  don't  propose  to  give  references.  I  have 
taught  school  in  the  States,  'n  I  think  I  am  compe 
tent.  If  you  will  give  me  a  trial,  you  will  soon  find 
out  whether  I  can  manage  and  teach  the  children.' 

"French  Joe,  he  was  on  the  committee,  'n  he  ob- 


84  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

jected.  But  somebody  said  how  would  he  like  to 
furnish  references,  'n  he  shut  up  quick.  'N  Miss 
Carle  ton  turned  round  'n  spoke  about  a  dozen  words 
to  him  in  his  own  lingo,  —  clear  French;  'n  Joe  was 
unanimous  for  her  after  that,  you  bet!  Well,  the 
more  they  talked,  the  more  they  liked  her;  'n  at  last 
they  voted  her  in.  Now  there  ain't  a  man  in  Pacto- 
lus  that  wouldn't  go  through  fire  'n  water  to  serve 
her." 

"Then,  since  your  school  is  so  well  provided  for," 
said  I,  "you  are  about  ready  to  start  a  church." 

"  I  ain't  no  jedge  o'  that,"  responded  Young  Bullion ; 
"  but  I  guess  our  boys'd  rather  hev  things  as  they 
are.  You  see,  Miss  Carleton  has  half  the  camp  up  to 
the  schoolhouse  every  Sunday  afternoon  to  her  Bible- 
readin's ;  'n  the  boys  spend  a  good  part  o'  the  fore 
noon  fixin'  up  'n  gettin'  ready,  'n  that  keeps  'em  out 
o'  mischief.  Besides,  nobody'd  want  to  go  to  Bible- 
readin'  tight:  so  they  jist  haul  off  early  Saturday 
night,  'nstead  o'  keepin'  't  up  all  night  'n  all  Sun 
day.  'N  they  set  round  there  till  dark,  talkin'  an' 
thinkin'  it  over;  'n  what  she  says  jest  stays  by  a 
feller.  Somebody  sort  o'  mentioned  the  church  busi 
ness  the  other  day,  '11  all  he  got  was  to  dry  up  :  what 
was  the  use  o'  leasin'  a  priest,  's  long  's  we  had  one 
o'  the  Lord's  own  angels  free  ?  " 

Agamemnon's  eloquence  on  this  subject  might  have 
continued  indefinitely  ;  but  I  remembered  my  duty 
to  my  employers,  and  reminded  him  that  the  serious 


AGAMEMNON.  85 

question  of  title  ought  to  be  settled  immediately, 
since,  without  a  satisfactory  basis  in  that  particular,  I 
could  not  properly  spend  time  and  labor  in  examining 
the  mine. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  "that's  all  right.  The  ole  man 
don't  git  ahead  o'  me!  Why,  he  was  a-copyin'  the 
papers  yesterday ;  'n  when  he  found  that  one  of  'em 
was  a  full  deed  o'  his  right,  title,  'n  interest,  he 
thought  he'd  struck  it  rich.  Didn't  know  he  hed  any 
right,  title,  'n  interest  up  to  that  time.  'N  he  hain't, 
accordin'  to  the  laws  o'  this  district.  But  I  jest  got  a 
p'int  or  two  through  my  agent  in  San  Francisco,  so  as 
to  make  things  all  serene ;  'n  when  he  said  the  law 
yers  said  that  wards,  minors,  'n  id  jits,  'n  so  forth, 
couldn't  give  deeds,  says  I, '  Who's  an  idjit  ?  '  — '  Oh  ! ' 
says  he,  *  it's  a  minor  you  are.'  —  'What  kind  of  a 
minor,'  says  I,  *  if  I  can't  sell  a  mine  ?'  But  James 
he  wa'n't  no  slouch.  He  understood  it  right  up  to 
the  handle ;  'n  he  explained  it  all,  'n  we  got  the  papers 
fixed  before  I  left." 

"  But  perhaps  your  father  will  refuse  to  sign,  unless 
you  pay  him  some  of  the  money." 

"  He  won't  sign,  won't  he?"  said  Young  Bullion 
with  superb  contempt.  "  He'd  sign  away  his  ole  soul 
for  five  dollars,  or  one  dollar,  or  two  bits ;  'n  he'll 
sign  that  thar  deed  for  nothin'  when  I  tell  him  to." 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  confident  of  your  power  over 
him.  Do  you  use  corporal  punishment  in  the  fam 
ily?  "  I  asked  jocosely.  * 


86  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

He  took  my  question  quite  in  earnest.  "  I  know 
what  you  mean,"  said  he  :  "we  had  a  talk  about  that 
in  the  school  committee ;  'n  Miss  Carleton  said  she 
wouldn't  hev  it.  But  it's  a  hefty  thing  to  fall  back 
on.  As  to  my  family,  I  never  had  to  lick  th'  old  man 
but  once  ;  but  I  did  it  up  in  style  that  time.  He  was 
bangin*  th'  ole  woman  about  the  room ;  'n  I  made  up 
my  mind  if  he  couldn't  set  a  better  example  'n  that, 
I'd  commence  'n  boss  the  shebang  myself.  But  I've 
got  a  better  holt  on  him  than  that.  Don't  you  worry: 
he'll  sign." 

I  suspected  afterwards,  no  matter  on  what  evidence, 
that  the  son  had  saved  the  father  from  either  lynch 
ing  or  jail  by  paying  some  claim,  which,  if  pressed, 
would  have  convicted  the  old  scamp  of  felony ;  and 
that  he  now  held  in  terrorem  over  the  culprit's  head, 
for  purposes  of  reform,  the  proofs  of  the  crime. 
What  a  strange  feeling  he  must  have  entertained 
towards  a  father  whom  he  could  make  r,uch  sacrifices 
to  save,  and  then  govern  by  a  mixture  of  thrashing 
and  blackmail !  Young  Bullion's  code  of  ethics  was 
certainly  confused.  He  seemed  to  have  a  sense  that 
the  family  was  a  burden  laid  on  him  by  fate,  to  be 
borne  without  complaining,  and  a  fierce  determina 
tion,  that,  though  it  was  a  burden,  it  should  cease  to 
be  a  disgrace. 

My  examination  of  the  mine  and  neighborhood 
was  prolonged  through  that  week  and  the  next.  I 
sent  off  very  early,  however,  my  preliminary  report 


AGAMEMNON.  87 

and  a  box  of  samples  by  express,  with  a  letter  to  my 
clients,  saying  that  I  would  await  further  advices,  and 
watch  the  developments  of  the  work  then  going  on. 
This  was  no  doubt  wdse :  but  I  was  conscious  that 
circumstances  made  it  also  pleasant ;  for,  as  the  days 
went  on,  I  became,  in  every  respect  except  her  own^ 
personal  history,  very  well  acquainted  with  Miss  Carle- 
ton.  We  had  many  subjects  of  conversation  which 
she  could  not  discuss  with  the  rude  inhabitants  of 
Pactolus.  She  possessed  the  great  charm  of  direct 
ness  and  simplicity.  Perfectly  aware  of  the  worship 
ing  regard  of  her  constituency,  she  spoke  of  it  as 
openly,  and  yet  with  as  little  vanity  (or  affected  mod 
esty,  which  is  the  same  thing),  as  if  it  were  another 
person,  and  not  herself,  that  \vas  concerned.  "  It  is  a 
great  pleasure,"  she  said  one  day,  "to  be  really  a 
'superior  being/  and  to  go  down  to  help  and  lift  such 
thankful  souls  as  these.  There  is  a  sort  of  intoxica 
tion  about  it — for  a  young  wToman  of  twenty-one." 

"  Do  you  never  feel  a  longing  for  some  compan 
ionship  more  congenial,  —  more  like  what  you  have 
been  accustomed  to  ?  " 

"I  did;  and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  taking  so 
much  interest  in  my  work,  giving  me  such  intelligent 
sympathy." 

I  felt  a  little  guilty  at  this  ;  for  my  interest  in  the 
work  was  certainly  subordinate  to  my  interest  in 
the  woman.  Our  acquaintance,  however,  remained  on 
the  same  footing  as  at  first.  I  wondered  why  I  could 


88  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

not  even  assume  the  fraternal  tone.  When  she  was 
sad,  as  I  often  fancied  she  was,  why  did  she  so  effec 
tively  evade  sympathy,  saying,  "  Now  I  am  tired  and 
melancholy,  don't  mourn  with  me,  but  make  me 
laugh  ?  "  And  why  — 

Well,  thus  I  drifted,  until  it  was  high  time  for  me 
to  stop  wondering  over  her  position,  and  take  an 
observation  as  to  my  own.  But  everybody  knows 
that  it  may  be  high  time  for  some  duty,  and  yet  one 
may  take  no  note  of  the  time  until  some  signal 
sounds  the  hour.  At  last  the  clock  struck  for  me. 

On  the  second  Saturday  a  letter  arrived  from  my 
clients,  advising  me  that  the  results  of  all  assays  had 
been  favorable  beyond  my  estimates,  and  that,  if  my 
own  judgment  continued  to  approve  the  purchase, 
they  would  close  the  bargain  at  once.  I  was  instruct 
ed  to  see  that  the  papers  were  made  out  in  due  form, 
and  Mr.  O'Ballyhan  could  then  express  them  to  his 
agent  in  San  Francisco,  who  could  deliver  them,  and 
receive  the  money. 

I  went  at  once  to  Young  Bullion,  half  expecting 
that  this  good  news  would  startle  him  out  of  his 
preternatural  maturity.  It  would  have  been  a  relief 
to  hear  him  whoop  with  joy,  or  see  him  stand  on  his 
head.  But  he  turned  pale,  and  staggered  as  if  he  had 
been  shot. 

"  It's  'most  too  much  for  me,"  he  said ;  "  not  the 
money,  but"  — 

With  an  effort  that  gave  me  a  higher  conception 


*     AGAMEMNON.  89 

than  ever  of  his  manly  self-control,  he  turned  hastily 
to  the  table-drawer,  and  produced  the  papers  of 
title.  They  were  complete  in  every  particular, — the 
certificate  of  original  location,  the  deeds  of  the  co- 
locators  to  Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan,  the  com 
plete  and  absolute  quit-claim  of  Miles  O'Ballyhan 
and  Leonora  his  wife,  to  the  said  Agamemnon,  —  all 
duly  acknowledged  and  indorsed  by  the  proper  officer, 
as  recorded  in  the  proper  "  Liber."  The  young  man 
had  evidently  not  been  idle.  He  must  have  ridden 
to  the  county-seat,  many  miles  away,  to  secure  these 
last,  and  in  those  days  somewhat  unusual,  evidences 
of  regularity.  The  papers  were  all  in  the  same 
handwriting,  —  an  elaborate,  flourishing  script,  which 
he  said  was  the  old  man's.  Finally  he  showed  me 
another  deed,  transferring  the  title  in  blank,  and  not 
yet  signed.  "  When  I  put  my  name  to  that,"  said 
he,  "the  thing's  drove  in  'n  clinched.  I  left  this  one 
blank  ;  because,  if  your  folks  didn't  buy,  I  might  want 
to  use  it  for  some  one  else." 

"I  find  every  thing  in  order,"  I  replied.  "You 
have  only  to  fill  up  and  execute  this  final  deed,  and 
send  it  to  your  agent." 

Then  I  walked  out,  and  up  into  the  woods,  and  medi 
tated  for  a  long  time  upon  non-professional  matters, 
without  coming  to  any  conclusion. 

Should  I  seek  a  final  interview  with  Miss  Carleton  ? 
and,  if  so,  what  should  I  say  to  her?  I  was  not  so 
really  "in  love"  as  to  deliberately  intend  to  offer  my- 


90  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

self  to  her  without  knowing  any  thing  of  her  history; 
yet  I  felt  that  a  farewell  talk  might  lead  rne  to  just 
that  rash  act,  unless  I  definitely  decided  beforehand 
what  should  be  its  nature. 

My  reflections  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  the  lady  herself.  Since  it  was  Sat 
urday  afternoon,  and  therefore  holiday,  she  \vas 
evidently  intending  to  use  her  freedom  for  a  walk. 
Ordinarily  I  would  have  hastened  to  join  her,  with 
a  pleasant  impression  that  my  company  was  not  un 
welcome.  This  time,  however,  I  hesitated;  because 
I  had  not  yet  finished  my  mental  debate,  and  was 
in  a  perilous  state  of  impressible  uncertainty.  I  re 
mained  sitting  a  little  distance  from  the  path,  in  the 
expectation  that  she  would  pass  by  without  seeing 
me ;  then,  I  thought,  I  would  hasten  to  make  up  my 
mind,  and  on  her  return  I  could  casually  meet  her, 
prepared  to  speak  as  the  result  of  my  reflection  might 
dictate.  I  ought  to  add  that  prudence  would  have 
had,  in  any  case,  nothing  to  say  if  I  had  been  able  to 
see  any  signs  of  a  more  than  friendly  interest  on  her 
part;  but  I  could  not  honestly  say  to  myself  that 
any  such  sign  had  been  discernible  hitherto.  I  could 
not  doubt  that  a  declaration  of  any  special  interest  on 
my  part  would  be  a  great  surprise  to  her  ;  and  really, 
I  was  not  myself  prepared  to  make  it,  unless  hurried 
over  the  edge  of  deliberation  by  some  sudden  im 
pulse. 

She  neither  saw  me  nor  passed  me  :   on    the   con- 


AGAMEMNON.  91 

trary,  she  stepped  aside  from  the  path,  and  seating 
herself  on  a  fallen  tree  a  few  yards  in  front  of  me, 
and  with  her  back  to  me,  read  and  re-read  a  letter ; 
then,  looking  steadfastly  down  over  the  town,  and 
out  through  the  gulch,  toward  the  foot-hills  and  the 
valley,  she  seemed  to  be  weeping.  Which  would  be 
more  embarrassing?  —  to  make  my  presence  known, 
or  to  remain  an  involuntary  witness  of  her  suffering? 
I  had  just  resolved  to  go  forward  and  speak  to  her  — 
any  words  that  would  comfort  her —  when  a  new  inci 
dent  checked  my  purpose.  Headlong  up  the  path 
came  Mr.  Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan.  There 
was  no  indecision  about  his  manner.  He  came,  to 
use  a  homely  comparison,  "as  if  he  had  been  sent 
for." 


V. 

NOT    MISS    MARY BUT    "QUITE    CONTRAIRY." 

A  MOMENT  more,  and  he  stood  before  Miss  Carleton. 
"  I  saw  ye  goin'  up  the  hill,"  he  said  breathlessly, 
"  'n  I  thought  I'd  catch  yer.  The  Agamemnon's  sold, 
Miss  Mary  :  she's  sold  !  " 

With  ready  sympathy,  putting  aside  her  own  trouble, 
she  replied,  "  How  glad  I  am  !  Now  what  will  you 
do?  " 


92  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"  That's  what  —  what  I  was  a-goin'  to  ask  y'  about. 
Ye  see,  I  s'pose  th'  ole  man  'n  Mother  ought  to  be 
fixed  somehow  ;  ought  to  be  took  care  of,  I  mean. 
Not  to  have  any  money:  they  can't  take  care  o' 
money.  Ye  see,  he'd  spend  it  in  cards  'n  whisk}', 
'n  she'd  spend  it  in  novels  and  opium.  Gets  opium 
on  the  sly  from  the  Chinamen.  Now,  I  mean  to  ap- 
pint  Cripple  Dan  gardeen  for  them  two.  He'll  never 
do  no  more  work  since  the  bank  caved  in  on  him  ;  but 
he  is  smart  enough  to  watch  ?em,  'n  not  be  took  in  by 
any  o'  their  tricks.  He  can  play  cards  with  th'  ole 
man  to  keep  him  out  o'  gamblin',  'n  he  can  buy  nov 
els  as  fast  as  Mother  can  swaller  'em.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  could  ring  in  some  o'  th'  old  ones  on 
her  once  in  a  while,  by  changin'  the  covers.  But 
whisky  'n  opium  — they  must  be  kep'  out." 

"A  very  practical  arrangement,  I  should  say. 
But  what  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

At  this  simple  question  Young  Bullion  became 
much  embarrassed.  "  Do  you,"  said  he,  "  Miss  Mary 
—  would  you  —  is  seventy-five  thousand  dollars 
enough,  do  you  think,  to  run  a  reg'lar  gentleman's 
house  ?  " 

She  sighed  involuntarily.  "  It  is  enough  to  main 
tain  a  happy  home  with  every  comfort  and  luxury. 
There  are  many  refined  '  gentlemen  '  who  bring  up 
their  families  in  content  on  far  less  money  than  the 
income  of  that  sum." 

"  Well,  but  —  Miss  Mary  —  would  it  be  enough  for 
you  f  " 


AGAMEMNON.  93 

She  started  in  astonishment.  "  For  me  ?  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  replied  the'  young  man,  conquering  his 
timidity,  and  speaking  with  a  simple  dignity  that 
made  him  handsome,  —  "I  mean  that  you  are  the  one 
that  made  me  want  to  be  a  gentleman,  'n  I  can't  be 
a  gentleman  unless  you  help  me  ;  'n  I  love  the  ground 
you  tread  on,  Miss  Mary.  If  you'll  be  my  wife,  you 
shall  never  work,  or  cry,  or  be  sorry  again." 

There  was  a  moment  of  painful  silence.  Then  she 
said,  "I  did  not  dream  of  this.  I  am  so  much  older 
than  you,  you  know." 

"  You  are  not  so  very  much  older,"  he  pleaded. 
"That  is  not  what  troubled  me.  But  you  are  so 
much  better  'n  wiser,  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
you !  I  wouldn't  'a'  dared  to  speak  to  ye ;  but  I 
knowed  ye  was  in  trouble.  'N  now  the  Agamem 
non's  sold,  'n  what's  it  all  good  for,  'f  I  can't  give  it 
to  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  answered  slowly,  but  with 
that  simple  frankness  which  belonged  to  her,  "  I  have 
been  —  I  am  —  in  trouble  ;  but  I  can  not  take  your 
help.  You  must  forget,  as  I  will  forget,  all  that  you 
have  said,  but  not  the  kindness  that  prompted  it,  nor 
the  gratitude  with  which  I  refuse  it." 

Agamemnon  looked  keenly  at  her,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  still  pursued  a  fixed  purpose.  The  refusal 
of  his  offer  did  not  seem  to  be  a  conclusive  defeat  to 
his  mind. 


94  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"  Ye  couldn't  change  yer  mind  ?  "  he  asked  reflec 
tively. 

"No." 

"  Not  never  ?     Not  if  I  was  older'n  I  be  ?  " 

"  Never.     You  must  not  think  of  it." 

u  Then  ye're  married  to  some  other  feller!  "  said 
Agamemnon,  with  a  sad  triumph.  "Now,  Miss 
Mary,  it  ain't  no  business  o'  mine,  I  know;  but  ye'd 
better  tell  me,  anyhow.  Wouldn't  ifc  sort  o'  quiet  my 
mind,  'n  do  me  good,  hey  ?  " 

This  subtle  appeal  to  her  benevolence  accomplished 
what  no  inquisitive  stratagem  could  have  compassed. 
After  a  slight  hesitation  she  said,  "  There  is  not  much 
to  tell,  and  it  is  not  very  important  that  I  should 
keep  it  secret,  only  I  have  preferred  to  do  so ;  and  I 
trust  you  to  help  me  in  that.  Yes,  I  am  married;  and 
my  dear  husband  is  slowly  recovering  at  —  at  a  place 
on  the  San  Joaquin,  from  a  long,  wasting  fever,  I 
left  him  when  he  was  pronounced  out  of  danger,  and 
I  have  seen  him  but  once  since  then.  It  was  the 
other  day,  when  I  took  the  journey  by  stage  from 
which  I  returned  on  the  same  coach  with  you.  It  is 
hard  to  be  parted  from  him.'' 

"  Now,  don't  ye  cry  again,  Miss  Mary.  It  ain't  none 
o'  my  business,  ye  know ;  but  it  would  sort  o'  settle 
my  mind  —  he's  good  to  ye,  ain't  he  ?  Ye  didn't  go 
for  to  leave  him  'cause  he  wouldn't  let  ye  boss  the 
ranch  ?  " 

-'  The  ranch  V  "  she  replied  sadly.     "  I  left  him  be- 


AGAMEMNON.  95 

cause,  after  his  long  illness,  we  were  so  poor  that  we 
were  in  danger  of  losing  our  pretty  ranch  altogether, 
and  of  starving  perhaps,  unless  one  of  us  could  get 
work.  That  one  was  I ;  and  the  work  I  understand 
best  is  teaching." 

"  You  bet !  "  assented  Young  Bullion  with  enthusi 
asm.  "  But  —  jest  to  ease  iny  mind  completely,  ye 
know  —  why  didn't  you  tell  somebody  afore?  This 
camp  would  'a'  raised  yer  salary,  'n  fetched  yer  hus 
band  up  here,  'n  built  ye  a  shebang,  'n  —  look  here, 
what  line  o'  business  is  he  in  ?  " 

"He  is  a  minister." 

"  Whoop  la  !  "  shouted  Young  Bullion  :  "  that's  our 
lay  exactly.  There's  a  fust-class  vacancy  right  here, 
'n  I'll  —  no,  T  guess  I  couldn't  quite  stand  it,  hevin' 
him  around  :  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me  !  But 
why  didn't  you  tell  us  afore  this  —  this  trouble  was 
made?  We'd  'a'  voted  him  'n  you  in  unanimous. 
Anybody  that's  a  good  'nough  husband  fer  you  's  a 
good  'nough  minister  fer  us." 

"  I  wish  I  had  told  you  all  at  the  beginning,"  said 
she  ;  "  but,  perhaps,  if  I  had  done  so,  you  would  have 
declined  my  services  altogether.  I  heard  about  your 
dispute  over  a  minister,  and  I  feared  to  let  you  know 
I  was  a  minister's  wife.  It  was  so  important,  so  very 
important  to  me  then,  to  get  a  place  immediately." 

Young  Bullion  made  no  reply.  If  what  he  had 
heard  had  not  "  eased  his  mind,"  it  had  at  least  given 
him  much  to  think  about.  The  silence  which  ensued 


06  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

recalled  me  to  a  sense  of  ray  embarrassing  position  as 
a  listener ;  and,  with  sudden  presence  of  mind,  I 
stepped  forward. 

"You  must  pardon  me,  my  friends,"  I  said,  "that 
I  have  overheard  your  conversation.  Nothing  that 
you  have  said  shall  be  repeated.  But  every  word  has 
deepened  my  respect  for  both  of  you.  If  I  can  in  any 
way  be  of  service  to  you,  Mrs.  —  Mrs.  Mary,  you 
have  only  to  command  me  as  a  faithful  friend." 
Then  I  lifted  my  cap,  and  retired  in  as  good  order  as 
a  fellow  could  —  under  the  circumstances. 

I  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  Young  Bullion 
overtook  me.  That  boy's  penetration  was  most  an 
noying  at  times,  and  this  wras  one  of  the  times. 

"  Goin'  to  play  fer  the  school-teacher  yerself,  wa'n't 
ye,  if  I  hedn't  got  the  call  fust?"  was  his  dreadful 
greeting.  u  Well,  'tain't  no  use  fer  nary  one  of  us. 
You  jest  go  'n  thank  the  Lord  y'ever  knowed  her,  'n 
don't  you  whine  'cause  she's  picked  out  a  better  man. 
No  cryin'  over  spilt  milk.  That's  me  !  "  And  he 
straightened  himself  until  his  short  stature  visibly 
increased. 

I  got  rid  of  Young  Bullion  as  soon  as  practicable, 
and  went  to  the  hotel  in  a  dazed  condition,  as  if  I 
had  fallen  from  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  rolled 
down  the  gulch.  When  one  has  seriously  weighed  a 
question  like  that  which  had  occupied  my  thoughts 
that  afternoon,  it  is  inevitably  startling  to  find  that  it 
was  a  matter  wholly  beyond  question  all  the  time.  I 


AGAMEMNON.  07 

wanted  to  think  it  over.  But  I  did  not  succeed  in 
thinking  it  over  on  the  porch  after  supper:  so  I 
went  to  bed  to  meditate  there ;  and  finally  I  went  to 
sleep,  my  last  reflection  being,  that  I  would  review  the 
whole  matter  on  the  morrow,  after  which  I  would  pay 
the  school-teacher  a  cordial,  friendly  farewell  call. 

But  the  morrow  brought  its  own  topics  for  surprise 
and  reflection.  At  early  dawn  I  was  waked  by  a 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  and,  turning  sleepily  in  bed, 
met  the  energetic  look  of  Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Bal- 
lyhan.  He,  at  least,  had  thought  over  his  situation, 
and  made  his  decision. 

"  Sorry  to  h'ist  ye  so  early,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I'm  off. 
Now,  don't  ye  go  fer  to  ask  no  questions,  but  'tend  to 
business.  Here's  them  papers  :  they're  all  right,  'n 
you'll  find  my  directions  along  with  'em.  I'm  off. 
Take  care  o'  yerself,  ole  boy."  And  he  was  gone. 

I  opened  the  package  he  had  left  on  rny  bed.  It 
contained  all  the  papers  I  had  previously  inspected. 
The  final  deed,  however,  had  been  filled  up  and  exe 
cuted  ;  and  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  my 
own  name  inserted  as  the  new  owner  of  the  Agamem 
non.  Enclosed  in  the  deed,  however,  was  a  document 
in  a  cramped  schoolboy  hand  which  threw  full  light 
on  the  transaction.  It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  This  is  my  Will  But  I  aint  ded  no  nor  goin  to  be  but 
I  am  as  good  as  ded  wich  it  is  All  the  Same  line  gon  over 
the  Range  the  mine  belongs  to  miss  mary  and  u  give  her 
the  inunny  she  kuos  about  Criple  dann  and  the  olrnan 


93  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

and  mother  you  pay  my  agent  1  tliousn  Dolars  and  doan 
take  nothin  for  yureself  yure  foaks  pays  u  with  the  munny 
i  antid  up  i  truss  u  becaus  u  likt  miss  mary  too. 

"AGAMEMNON  ATBIDES  O'BALLYHAN." 

Why  should  I  detain  the  reader  with  an  account  of 
what  followed  V  It  was  not  easy  for  me  to  execute 
the  charge  confided  to  me.  The  lady  at  first  utterly 
refused  to  accept  the  strange  legacy  of  which  I  was 
trustee.  But  I  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  take 
the  money,  and  carry  out  Agamemnon's  wishes  until 
he  should  be  found, — an  event  which  I  felt  sure  he 
would  not  permit  to  happen.  "  Get  your  husband  to 
come  here  and  live,"  I  said.  u  If  the  boy  ever  means 
to  be  seen  again,  it  is  to  this  place  he  will  come ;  and 
it  is  here,  in  the  good  work  you  have  begun,  of  which 
his  own  awakened  manhood  was  one  of  'the  first- 
fruits,  that  you  should  expend  the  income  of  his 
legacy." 

Cripple  Dan,  it  turned  out,  had  been  already  sound 
ed  as  to  his  willingness  to  take  charge  of  the  two  way 
ward  O'Ballyhans  on  a  handsome  allowance  for  the 
three.  He  assumed  the  position  at  once,  and  smashed 
two  hidden  bottles  for  the  O'Ballyhan  the  first  day. 
That  disconsolate  old  toper  supposed  the  orders  for 
this  vandalism  proceeded  from  the  school-teacher. 
" Dux fcemina factij  it's  a  woman  is  in  it:  cedant  arma 
toyce,  the  glory  o'  the  O'Ballyhans  is  swipt  away  be  a 
petticoat,"  was  his  lament.  But  he  submitted  to  be 
made  comfortable,  and  seemed  none  the  worse  for  his 
enforced  sobriety. 


AGAMEMNON.  99 

VI. 

SIMILIA    SIMILIBUS    CURANTUR. 

THUS  I  left  them  all,  and  closed  a  chapter  in  my 
own  life  which  I  expected  never  to  re-open.  But 
time  brings  about  unexpected  coincidences;  and  what 
should  it  bring  to  me,  the  ether  day,  ten  years  after 
the  even  Is  narrated  in  this  story,  but  a  visit  from  Aga 
memnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan  ?  —  a  prosperous,  manly 
fellow  as  one  would  wish  to  see,  with  stylish  clothes 
and  a  fine  mustache.  And  on  his  arm  —  could  I  be 
lieve  my  eyes  ?  Was  it  the  school-teacher,  become  as 
much  younger  as  Agamemnon  had  grown,  older  ? 

"Mrs.  O'Ballyhan,"  said  he  proudly,  "Miss  Mary's 
sister.  You  and  I  didn't  feel  very  happy  that  day, 
you  know;  but  now  I'm  glad  I  waited."  The  latter 
remark  was  fortunately  an  aside,  so  that  Mrs.  O'Bal 
lyhan  did  not  hear  it. 

.  "You  bet!"  I  answered,  clothing  due  felicitation 
in  what  I  thought  would  be  congenial  style.  But 
1  was  mistaken  as  to  the  style.  Agamemnon  had 
"  swore  off  "  from  slang  so  far  as  human  nature  would 
permit.  Only  now  and  then,  as  he  confessed,  "con 
versation  got  the  better  of  him." 

During  the  short  half-hour  that  the  happy  pair  sat 
in  my  office,  my  old  friend  gave  me  an  outline  of  his 


100  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

career  from  the  day  when  we  had  parted.  It  would 
make  another  story  by  itself,  and  I  am  sorry  that  it 
must  be  condensed  in  a  few  lines. 

After  '•  striking  it  rich  "  again,  over  the  Range  in 
Nevada,  and  accumulating  from  several  lucky  hits  a 
fortune  at  least  double  that  which  he  had  given  away, 
he  had  returned  to  Pactolus  six  years  from  the  day  of 
his  disappearance. 

"  It  took  me  about  that  time,"  said  he,  "to  get  over 
things.  But  then  I  couldn't  rest  till  I  had  seen  the 
old  place,  and  so  I  came  back..  The  old  folks  were 
both  dead  —  best  thing  for 'em.  But  there  was  the 
minister  and  his  wife  just  about  worshiped  by  every 
body  ;  and  there  was  an  Agamemnon  Academy,  and 
an  Agamemnon  Free  Library,  and  so  on,  all  built 
with  the  interest  of  my  money.  You'd  better  believe 
everybody  was  astonished  to  see  me.  All  thought  [ 
was  dead,  sure,  except  Miss  Mary  :  she  stuck  to  it 
I  would  come  back.  Even  when  they  found  some 
body's  bones  over  in  the  sage-brush  beyond  the  sum 
mit,  and  had  a  funeral  on  'em,  she  wouldn't  let  'em 
call  my  name  at  the  funeral,  nor  put  it  on  the  tomb 
stone. 

"  Well,  they  wanted  me  to  take  back  my  capital. 
But  I  told  'em  I'd  got  enough ;  and,  at  any  rate,  there 
wasn't  any  hurry.  I'd  stay  round  a  while,  and  con 
sider.  So,  after  I  had  considered  a  little,  I  went  to 
Miss  Mary  and  the  parson,  and  says  I,  '  What  1  want 
is  to  go  to  school.  I  feel  pretty  old;  but  I  guess  I 


AGAMEMNON.  101 

ain't  too  old  to  learn.'  You  see,  my  Susy  here,  she 
was  assistant  teacher  in  the  academy,  and  I  thought 
she  could  teacli  me  if  anybody  could.  But  they  said 
I  was  too  big  to  go  and  sit  on  the  benches  in  the 
academy.  Susy  said  she  couldn't  think  of  trying  to 
manage  a  scholar  twenty-two  years  old:  that  was  so 
very  old,  —  a  whole  year  older  than  she  was!  So  I 
had  to  take  up  with  the  minister's  offer  to  give  me 
private  instruction.  And  I  got  my  pay,  too,  before 
long;  for  the  minister  said  I  got  ahead  so  fast  that  I 
had  better  join  the  reading-class.  That  meant  to 
come  every  other  day  and  read  and  talk  over  books 
with  him  and  his  wife  and  Susy. 

"It  was  a  good  while  before  I  made  up  to  Susy. 
Had  a  good  lesson  once,  you  know  —  and,  besides, 
I  had  got  more  bashful.  The  more  I  learned,  the 
more  1  found  I  didn't  know ;  and  I  felt  so  ugly  and 
clumsy,  and  inferior  every  way,  it  didn't  seem  as  if  a 
lady  like  her  would  care  for  me  —  unless  it  was  by 
reason  of  the  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  But 
Susy  didn't  know  about  that,  and  she  wouldn't  have 
minded  it  a  mite  if  she  had.  Fact  is,  she  thought  a 
good  deal  better  of  me  than  I  deserved  all  the  time'; 
for  her  folks  had  been  cracking  me  up  for  years  and 
years,  and  all  the  Academy  Commencements  and  the 
Annual  Reports  had  a  lot  in  'em  about  the  *  munifi 
cent  founder'  and  the  'generous  benefactor,'  and  I 
don't  know  what  all;  and  so,  when  I  turned  up  alive 
at  last,  she  was  prepared  to  believe  I  wras  better  than 


102  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

I  looked.  Anyhow,  I  got  to  be  like  one  of  the  fam 
ily  ;  and  Susy  was  as  good  as  she  could  be,  and  took 
no  end  of  pains  with  me,  to  help  me  put  on  a  little 
style,  and  talk  the  correct  thing,  and  so  on.  And  one 
day  she  was  showing  me  how  to  hold  yarn  for  her  to 
wind;  and  says  I,  sitting  there  as  meek  as  a  lamb, 
4  Seems  to  me,  if  you  couldn't  manage  a  big  boy  of 
twenty-two,  you've  somehow  got  the  knack  of  mana 
ging  him  now  he's  nigh  twenty-four.' 

"  Well,  one  thing  led  to  another  ;  and  that  skein 
of  yarn  got  so  tangled  (because  I  forgot  to  lay  it 
down),  that  Susy  said  it  should  never  be  unraveled. 
She  keeps  it  as  a  curiosity. 

"  The  next  morning  I  went  to  the  parson,  and  says 
I,  '  Now  let's  talk  business.  I'll  take  that  hundred 
thousand  back,  just  to  please  you;  though  I've  got 
twice  as  much,  and  I  don't  want  it.'  He  said,  i  All 
right ; '  but  he  looked  a  little  cast  down  too.  Par 
sons  are  human. 

"*  Now,'  says  I,  'it's  mine  ;  and  I'm  going  to  make 
another  business  proposition.  You  marry  Susy  and 
me,  and  I'll  give  you,  say,  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
as  a  wedding-fee.' 

"  *  Oho  !  '  says  he.  •*  Well,  my  boy  ;  she's  worth  it. 
You've  made  a  good  bargain,  and  so  have  I.' 

"  That  was  two  years  ago ;  and  Susy  and  I  have 
just  been  the  happy  pair  you  read  about,  ever  since. 
She's  been  going  right  ahead  with  my  education,  and 
got  about  as  much  polish  on  me,  I  guess,  as  the  grain 


AGAMEMNON.  103 

will  bear.  You  can't  make  mahogany  out  o'  red 
wood,  if  you  rub  it  for  ever.  So  the  other  day  I 
made  a  little  turn  in  Agamemnon  stock,  —  those 
blamed  fools  in  California  Street  thought  the  mine 
was  played  out.  when  they  had  a  new  body  of  first- 
class  ore  right  under  their  noses,  —  and  I  asked  Susy 
if  she  didn't  think  a  little  foreign  travel  was  about 
the  thing  to  finish  off  with.  She  wasn't  long  saying 
yes  to  that ;  and  here  we  are,  bound  for  everywhere. 
I  expect  we'll  go  round  the  world  before  we  stop." 

We  had  a  most  friendly  and  familiar  chat;  and  the 
last  I  heard  of  them  was  as  they  were  departing  in 
merry  mood  together,  and  the  sweet  voice  of  Mrs. 
O'Ballyhan  said,  "  He  offered  to  get  the  Legislature  to 
change  it;  but  I  said  No.  I  like  him  just  as  he  is, 
name  and  all — Agamemnon  Atrides  O'Ballyhan." 

She  laughed  a  musical  laugh  of  mingled  mirth  and 
pride  as  she  added,  glancing  fondly  at  her  husband, 
44  But  I  call  him  *  my  dear,'  for  short." 


WIDOW  BAKER: 
A    NEW-ENGLAND    STORY. 

CHAPTER   I. 

SQUIRE    AND    DEACON. 

|T  was  a  bright.,  still  day,  after  the  first  hard 
frost.  The  chestnuts  were  dropping  in  the 
woods;  and  Squire  Hawkins,  one  of  the 
selectmen  of  the  town  of  Hucklebury,  was 
burning  brush  on  his  side-hill  ten-acre-lot.  The 
squire  had  got  through  with  the  heavy  work,  and  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  the  fire  while  he  tinkered 
here  and  there  at  the  fence.  So,  when  Deacon  Pea- 
body's  white  horse,  pulling  a  shay  with  the  deacon 
in  it,  came  in  sight  on  the  hill-road,  the  squire  had 
no  reason  to  deny  himself  the  expectation  of  a  com 
fortable  and  leisurely  clr  •>:  From  where  he  stood, 
he  could  see  the  turnpike  tuat  came  from  the  corners 
arid  went  through  the  valley,  past  the  red  school- 
house,  and  past  Westcott's  sawmill,  to  Hucklebury 
104 


WIDOW  BAKER.  105 

Center  and  South  Ilucklebury,  and  so  on  to  larger 
places.  And  when  he  saw  the  deacon's  shay  turn 
from  the  pike  and  begin  to  ascend  the  hill-road,  he 
knew  that  in  about  fifteen  minutes  the  deacon  would 
be  at  hand.  That  gave  him  time  to  fix  up  one  more 
length  of  fence,  and  to  fold  his  arms  sociably  on  the 
top-rail,  ready  for  an.  interview.  The  deacon's  horse 
stopped  opposite  the  squire,  without  needing  any  hint 
from  his  driver.  He  knew  the  custom  of  the  coun 
try,  and  was  not  averse  to  it,  particularly  when  the 
opportunity  to  observe  it  occurred  on  a  convenient, 
level  spot,  at  the  end  of  a  steep  pull. 

"Wai,  Deacon,"  said  the  squire  heartily,  "I'm  glad 
to  see  ye  out  agin.  We've  kind  o'  missed  ye  at 
meetin',  'n  everywhere  else  too,  for  that  matter.  The 
parson,  he  says  he's  all  lost  o'  Sundays  'thout  you  to 
look  at :  dunno  whether  he's  been  sufficiently  explicit 
on  a  tough  pint  o'  doctrine,  or  not.  You  took  it  most 
too  hard,  Deacon.  Grief  is  nateral,  of  course,  to  a 
reasonable  extent;  but  Mis'  Peabody  had  been  a- 
f ailiu'  so  long,  ye  know ;  and  it  was  a  gret  marcy 
she  passed  away  comfortable  in  body  an'  mind;  an', 
on  the  hull,  there's  much  to  be  thankful  for.  I 
expect  it  is  kind  o'  lonesome,  now  she's  gone ;  "  and 
the  squire  paused,  W7ith  the  air  of  one  who  had 
administered  consolation  and  rebuke  in  wise  propor 
tions. 

Deacon  Phineas  Peabody  took  no  offense  where 
none  was  meant.  He  had  nursed  his  invalid  wife 


106  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

through  her  long  illness,  —  an  old-fashioned,  slow 
consumption,  —  and  he  had  shut  himself  up  for  a 
month  after  her  death,  in  a  silent  sorrow  too  deep 
for  words ;  but  now  he  had  braced  himself  again  for 
the  duties  of  life,  and  he  quite  assented  to  the  rough 
but  well-meant  observations  of  his  friend. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  deacon  meditatively,  "  she  lasted  a 
good  while ;  *n  I  dunno's  I  ever  quite  giv'  up  hopin' 
about  her.  She'd  git  a  little  better  some  weeks,  'n 
then  agin  a  little  wuss ;  'n  she  was  allers  lookin'  on 
the  dark  side  herself,  so  /  sort  o'  got  in  the  way  o' 
s'posin'  mebbe  she  wa'n't  so  bad's  she  thought  for. 
Them  last  drops  that  her  sister  Mahaly  sent  up  from 
Boston  seemed  to  take  right  hold  of  her  cough.  But 
it  wa'n't  no  use  :  it  was  ordained.  Cynthy  wras  right, 
after  all.  I  s'pose  the  Lord  kind  o'  prepared  her  for 
what  was  comin'." 

"There's  Susan,"  said  the  squire.  "She  must  be 
gret  comfort  to  ye.  She's  a  good  gal,  Susan  is.  I've 
follered  her  ever  sence  she  was  a  little  bit  of  a  thing, 
comin'  over  to  our  house  after  maple-sugar.  I  used 
to  think  young  Jotham  Baker  and  she  would  make  a 
match  on't;  but,  bless  you!  these  young  folks  will 
hev  their  own  idees,  and  they're  too  sharp  for  us  old 
fellows  to  find  'em  out.  I  tell  ye,  I  was  jest  up-an'- 
down  mortified  when  Jotham  carne  to  me,  an'  told  me 
he  was  engaged  to  Westcott's  darter  Nancy.  Not 
but  she  was  a  nice  gal,  'n  I  had  nothin'  agin  the 
match,  except  that  old  Westcott  was  a  Methodist  'n 


WIDOW  BAKER.  107 

a  Democrat,  'n  it  did  Seem  kind  o'  mean  to  hold  Nancy 
responsible  for  that.  But  I  thought,  after  all  his 
goin's  on  with  Susan,  it  wasn't  jest  exactly  right  for 
him  to  go  off  arter  another  one ;  'n  I  told  him  so. 
Says  I,  'Jotham,  my  boy,  there  ain't  no  objection  to 
your  takin'  a  wife,  in  the  fear  o'  the  Lord,  wherever 
you  find  her,  amongst  the  Moabites,  or  the  Hittites, 
or  the  Methodists,  or  the  Democrats ;  but  I  don't  like 
this  philanderin'  at  the  same  time  with  Susan  Pea- 
bedy.'  Jotham,  he  bust  out  a-larnn',  'n  says  he, 
'  Why,  Susan  has  know'd  all  about  it  ever  sence  it 
began.  Thet's  what  I  talk  about  to  Susan,'  says  he. 
'  Well,'  says  I,  '  it's  none  o'  my  business,  you  know, 
Jotham:  you  hevn't  got  to  answer  to  me  for  your 
doin's ;  but  I'd  like  to  know  how  long  ago  it  be 
gan.' 

"  Wai,  he  was  ready  enough  to  talk  about  it.  He'd 
'a'  talked  all  day  if  I'd  'a'  let  him.  You  see,  I  was 
an  old  friend  of  his  fam'ly,  'n  Widder  Baker  sot  a 
good  deal  by  my  advice;  'n  Jotham,  he  was  like 
a  son  to  me.  So  he  told  me  he  had  been  acquainted 
with  Nancy  Westcott  ever  sence  the  quiltin'  down  to 
W^estcott's,  jest  afore  last  year's  donation-party.  '  Do 
tell ! '  says  I,  tol'ble  scornful ;  '  'n  you've  know'd 
Susan  Peabody  all  your  life.  You  must  excuse  me 
for  sayin'  of  it,  young  man ;  but  Susan  is  wuth  a 
dozen  of  her.' 

" '  Susan  is  the  best  girl  that  ever  lived,'  says  he, 
*  exceptin'  Nancy  ;  but  that's  a  very  different  matter. 


108  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

I  tell  ye,  Susan  wouldn't  loolt  at  me,  onless  as  a 
friend.'  So  oft'  he  went,  'n  that's  a' most  the  last 
time  I  see  him.  He  sailed  for  the  East  Injees  that 
fall,  'n  now  it's  about  two  year,  'n  he  hain't  been 
heerd  from.  I've  hed  it  on  my  mind  many  a  time  to 
tell  ye  about  that  talk ;  '  'cause,'  says  I  to  myself, '  per 
haps  the  deacon  hed  the  same  idee  as  I  did,  'n  he 
might  think  strange  on  it  that  Jotham  Baker  got 
engaged,  afore  he  sailed,  to  Xancy  Westcott,  arter  he'd 
been  pay  in'  attentions  to  Susan  Peabody.'  " 

The  deacon  had  listened  to  the  squire's  voluble 
story  in  an  absent-minded  way,  paying,  in  truth,  very 
little  attention  to  it.  lie  had  never  quite  realized 
that  his  little  Susan  had  come  to  bo  a  young  woman. 
To  him  she  was  a  dutiful  and  comely  daughter, 
deeply  but  not  demonstratively  loved,  a  brisk  house 
keeper,  a  skillful  nurse  to  her  invalid  mother,  a 
melodious  singer  in  the  choir,  and  a  great  favorite 
with  the  Widow  Baker.  Since  his  wife's  death,  he 
had  thought  more  about  Susan ;  and  now  the  squire's 
allusion  to  her  aroused  a  host  of  feelings  and  remi 
niscences,  in  which  the  love-affairs  of  Jotham  Baker 
had  not  the  remotest  share. 

u  Exactly,"  said  the  deacon,  —  not  very  exactly,  so 
far  as  a  logical  reply  was  concerned.  c;  Susan's  a 
good  darter,  'n  a  middlin'  manager.  She  used  to 
be  a  bright,  heal  thy- look  in'  gal;  but  I  think  it  lias 
wore  on  her,  tendin'  to  her  ma.  She  ain't  so  spry  as 
she  was,  'n  the  color  is  kind  o'  faded  out  of  her 


WIDOW  BAKER.  109 

cheeks.  I'm  af eared  she's  a-goin'  to  be  delicate. 
Fact  is,  I  was  jest  ridin'  over  to  Widder  Baker's  to 
talk  to  her  about  Susan.  I  thought  mebbe  she'd  fix 
her  up  suthin'  to  take,  that'd  do  her  good,  'n  s'jt  her 
up.  Susan  mopes  'n  reads  too  much  ;  though  I  dunno 
's  she  slights  her  housekeepin'  any.  But  she's  a  gret 
hand  for  books  —  takes  after  her  ma.  But  she  won't 
never  be  sech  a  woman  as  her  ma  was.  Miss  Baker 
was  a  gret  friend  o'  my  Cynthy  " 

The  deacon's  simple  admiration  of  his  deceased 
wife  would  have  been  amusing,  if  it  had  not  been 
pathetic.  Probably  nobody  else  would  have  extolled 
the  intellect  of  the  late  Mrs.  Peabody ;  and  certainly 
nobody  would  have  dreamed  of  pronouncing  Susan 
her  inferior,  —  Susan,  who  talked  on  terms  of  equality 
with  the  parson  and  the  doctor  and  the  schoolmaster, 
and  who  had  even  written  poetry  which  had  been  pub 
lished  with  editorial  commendation  in  "  The  Adver 
tiser/'  But  to  the  patient  and  apparently  prosaic 
deacon,  there  never  had  come  an  end  of  the  romantic 
admiration  with  which  he  had  in  his  youth  regarded 
his  Cynthia.  Indeed,  his  present  visit  to  the  Widow 
Baker,  undertaken  on  the  pretext  of  talking  about 
Susan,  was  really  inspired  by  the  longing  to  talk 
about  his  wife  with  one  who  had  known  and  loved 
her. 


110  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE    STORY    OF    THE    BAKERS. 

GOIN'  over  to  Widder  Baker's,  be  ye?  "  answered 
the  squire.  "  '  Xpect  ye  hain't  heerd  the  news.  Law 
yer  Marigold,  over  to  the  Center,  has  foreclosed  on 
that  Baker  mortgage ;  'n  it's  likely  Widder  Baker'll 
be  turned  out  o'  house  'n  home.  I  was  over  to  the 
Center  yesterday  to  see  what  could  be  done  about  it. 
Marigold,  he  was  reasonable  enough  ;  didn't  want 
nothin'  but  his  money,  an'  he's  waited  for  that  this 
ten  year,  not  wishin'  to  disturb  the  fam'ly.  Ye  see, 
the  kernel  borrowed  the  money.  Kernel  Baker  was 
a  well-meanin'  man ;  but  all  his  geese  was  swans,  an' 
he  was  shif 'less  besides,  —  allers  a-contrivin'  suthin, 
or  in ven tin*  suthin,  'n  never  reelly  amountin'  to 
nothin'.  There  was  that  patriotic  warfle-iron  o' 
liis'n,  —  in  the  shape  of  the  American  eagle.  He 
was  sure  he  had  got  a  fortin'  in  that.  Fact  is,  I 
thought  it  was  a  good  idee  myself,  —  men-folks  don't 
know  much  about  cookin',  ye  see,  —  an'  I  let  him 
have  a  hundred  dollars  just  to  start  the  thing.  AVall, 
he  brought  the  very  fust  one  down  to  our  house,  'n 
made  a  present  on't  to  my  wife  ;  'n,  the  minit  she  sot 
eyes  on  it,  she  took  the  sense  o'  the  thing,  and  was 
sartin  it  wouldn't  work.  The  idee  was  good  enough 


WIDOW  BAKER.  HI 

for  any  thing  bat  a  warfle-iron ;  but  ye  couldn't  make 
a  warfle  on  it,  to  save  your  life.  When  the  beak  'n 
the  thunderbolts  was  done  to  a  crips,  the  innards  was 
'most  raw  !  Now  that  was  Kernel  Baker,  —  overdone 
in  one  spot,  'n  underdone  in  another  spot,  's  long  's  he 
lived. 

"Wai,  's  I  was  sayin',  Marigold  let  him  have  two 
thousand  dollars  on  his  farm.  The  land -ain't  worth 
the  money,  you  know,  not  even  if  you  throw  in  the 
house  and  barn.  But  the  kernel  he  had  found  a 
gold-mine  up  in  the  rocks  on  top  o'  the  hill;  'n  sure 
enough  he  did  showr  some  gold  that  he  got  out  on't, 
'n  I  guess  that  sort  o'  stirred  old  Marigold's  blood. 
Ye  know  thct  hole  the  kernel's  cow  fell  into  'n'  broke 
her  neck?  Wai,  thet's  the  mine.  They  never  could 
make  it  pay;  'n  the  kernel  he  pottered  around  about 
it,  washin'  an'  'malgamatin',  'an'  the  Lord  knows  what, 
till  he  got  the  rheumatiz,  'n  salivated  himself  with 
the  quicksilver,  'n  kind  o'  run  down  an'  died.  Then 
Eliakim  started  off  out  West  to  seek  his  fortin';  an' 
Marigold  promised  him  to  wait  five  years,  so's  to 
give  him  a  chance  to  redeem  the  old  place.  It  w'an't 
wuth  the  money;  but  folks  will  get  their  hearts  sot 
on  the  place  they  was  born  in,  if  it's  too  poor  for  a 
chicken-paster.  Thet's  nateral.  But,  afore  the  five 
years  was  up,  Eliakim  he'd  took  a  fever  out  there  in 
Illinois,  'n  died,  'n  left  nothiiv.  So  there  was  nobody 
but  the  widder  'n  Jotham.  I  tell  ye,  Deacon  it  como 
mighty  hard  on  Jotham  to  make  up  his  mind  to  go 


112  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

away  'n  leave  his  mother.  He  tried  every  way  to  git 
a  livin'  out  o'  the  farm  ;  but  all  he  could  do  he  couldn't 
niore'n  make  both  ends  meet,  'n  hard  scratchin'  at 
thet, —  teachin'  school  in  the  winter,  'n  workin'  at 
Westcott's  sawmill,  besides  all  the  farm-work  'n 
chores  at  home.  Then  come  that  courtin'  business 
with  Xancy  ;  'n  AVestcott  didn't  half  like  it.  But  the 
gal  was  headstrong,  'n  there  was  nothin'  to  be  said 
agin  Jotham,  only  he  was  poor.  But  Westcott  he  had 
been  poor  himself,  'n  he  didn't  stand  so  much  on  thet; 
only  he  said  the  young  folks  must  wait.  Fact  is, 
Jotham  was  too  proud  to  settle  down  onto  a  father- 
in-law,  partic'ly  with  his  mother.  So  he  started  off 
to  sea.  Advised  him  to  go  myself.  He  couldn't  do 
so  well  any  other  way.  It  was  a  good  chance,  —  super 
cargo  I  b'lieve  they  called  it,  —  with  middlin'  fair  pay, 
'11  the  priv'lege  o'  speculatin'  a  little  on  his  own  hook. 
An'  Lawyer  Marigold  he  said  he'd  wait  another  year 
to  see  what'd  come  of  it.  I  clunno  how  much  you've 
heerd  o'  this  afore,  Deacon  :  what  with  Miss  Peabody 
bein'  so  thick  with  Widder  Baker,  'nd  your  Susan 
sech  good  friends  with  Jotham,  it's  more'n  likely  you 
kep'  the  run  o'  the  whole  thing.  But  what  I'm  com- 
in'  to'll  be  news  to  ye.  About  a  week  ago  I  see  in 
'  The  Advertiser'  that  Jotham's  ship  had  been  giv'  up 
for  lost,  'n  the  insurance  company  lied  paid  the  insur 
ance  on  her.  That's  a  purty  sartin  sign,  ye  know. 
When  one  o'  them  companies  pays  up,  it  must  be  a 
tol'ble  clear  case. 


WIDOW  BAKER.  113 

"So,  as  I  was  savin',  I  hitched  up  yesterday,  'n 
drove  over  to  the  Center,  to  see  Lawyer  Marigold 
about  it.  Says  I,  '  There's  the  Widow  Baker  without 
kith  or  kin,  'n  how  she'll  git  along  's  more  'n  I  can 
see.  Jotharn  left  her  his  winter's  'arnin's ;  'n  the  farm 
has  jest  about  kep'  her  in  vittles.  One  o'  my  men 
worked  ikon  shares.  But  he  give  her  all  it  perduced  ; 
'n  I  made  it  all  right  with  him.  Iwaii't  goin'  to  hev 
Jotham  come  back,  'n  find  we  'd  let  the  old  lady  suf 
fer.  However,'  says  I,  'thet's  no  way  to  get  along.' 

"  *  Won't  »Westcott  do  nothin'  ?  '  says  Marigold. 

" '  Westcott's  not  a  bad  man,'  says  I,  'if  he  is  cluss. 
But  I  don't  think  the  widow'd  take  any  help  from  him. 
Ye  see,  she  knows  it  was  all  along  o'  Nancy  that  her 
boy  went  off,  'n  she  takes  it  hard  that  Nancy  hain't 
been  to  see  her.  Gals  is  gals,  'n  I  don't  want  to  jedge 
'em ;  but  the  fact  is,  Nancy  never  did  care  quite  so 
much  for  Jotham  as  she  made  out  to.  'N  about  a  year 
arter  he  was  gone,  that  smart  young  feller  from  Boston 
came  a-cuttin  round,  'n  she  was  mightily  taken  with 
him.  They  say  there  wa'n't  no  reg'lar  engagement 
between  her  an'  Jotham :  the  old  man  wouldn't  hear 
on't.  So  the  long  an'  short  on  't  is,  they're  goin'  to  be 
married  day  before  Christmas,  'n  she's  goin'  to  live  in 
Boston,  'n  keep  her  own  kerridge.  No  wonder  she 
was  a  little  shy  o'  the  widder !  " 

The  deacon  listened  to  the  squire's  long  story,  and 
gently  poked  oft'  with  his  whip  the  flies  that  settled 
on  the  white  horse.  His  kind  heart  was  beginning  to 


CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

stir  within  him,  and  to  take  an  interest  in  the  trials 
and  sorrows  of  other  people.  "  Seems  to  me,"  said 
the  deacon,  "I  heu'  heerd  a  good  deal  o'  this  afore; 
but  I  cal'late  I've  ben  too  much  occupied  with  my 
own  troubles.  I  sort  o'  let  it  go  through  my  ears  with 
out  stoppin'.  I  do  remember  Susan  lettin'  out  the 
other  day  about  Nancy  Westcott,  an'  sayin'  it  was  a 
shame  she  was  goin'  to  git  married;  but  I  jest  put  it 
down  as  gals'  talk.  Wai,  what  did  Lawyer  Marigold 
say?  " 

"  He  said  he  hadn't  no  idee  o'  turnin'.  the  Widow 
Baker  out  o'  house  'an  home  at  her  age;  but  ho  didn't 
see  no  good  o'  leavin'  on  her  there  when  she  couldn't 
git  her  livin'.  lie  guessed  he'd  hev  to  foreclose  so  's 
to  get  a  clear  title  to  the  farm,  ef  it  ever  should  be 
worth  any  thing.  Somebody'd  hev  to  pay  taxes,  'n' 
keep  up  the  fences,  an'  so  on.  When  the  branch  rail 
road  come  in  to  Hucklebury,  the  land  might  be 
wanted.  It  was  a  good  place  for  a  tunnel,  anyhow. 
But  he  was  ready  to  give  a  bond,  that  ef  Widder 
Baker,  or  any  other  Baker,  wanted  the  place  back 
agin,  they  should  have  it  for  what  it  cost  him. 

"  *  Wai,'  says  I,  '  Mr.  Marigold,  thet's  fair  'n'  square. 
As  for  the  widder,  I  don't  see  but  she'll  hev  to  come 
on  the  town.'  " 

When  Deacon  Peabody  heard  that,  he  winced  a 
little;  but  on  second  thought  he  said  reflectively, 
"Wai,  it  ain't  a  disgrace,  so  far  as  I  know,  for  a 
good  woman  to  be  took  care  of  by  her  neighbors, 


WIDOW  BAKER.  115 

when  she's  brought  up  her  family  well,  '11  lost  'em  all, 
an'  got  beyond  takin*  care  of  herself." 

"Jest  so,"  replied  the  squire.  "I  thought  I'd  go 
over  an*  break  it  to  her;  but  1  didn't  quite  like  to  do 
it,  pavtic'ly  now,  with  this  news  about  Jotham's  ship 
bein'  lost,  an'  the  boy  drowned.  An'  I  had  an  idee 
that  there  wan't  no  need  o'  tellin'  her  the  hull  on't. 
We  might  auction  off  her  board,  accordin'  to  law ;  V 
then  the  lowest  bidder  could  jest  step  over,  'n  invite 
her  to  stay  with  him." 

The  deacon  suddenly  broke  off  the  conversation. 
"  I  must  be  gittin'  on,"  said  he, "and  addressed  the 
white  horse  with  a  sudden  "  G'dap !  "  that  surprised 
that  venerable  animal  into  a  trot  up  hill.  A  listener 
unacquainted  with  the  characters  of  these  worthy 
people  would  have  been  shocked  to  hear  a  conversa 
tion  which  showed  at  least  some  faculty  of  sympathy 
and  respect  for  the  Widow  Baker  terminate  with  the 
cold-blooded  proposition  to  put  her  up  at  auction  as  a 
pauper,  and  let  her  go  to  the  citizen  who  would  give 
her  board  and  lodging  for  the  smallest  sum.  Yet 
such  a  judgment  would  have  been  unjust.  Under 
plain  words  and  ways,  both  the  squire  and  the  deacon 
meant  nothing  but  kindness.  Either  of  them  was 
ready  to  take  the  widow  into  his  own  home,  and' 
make  her  old  age  comfortable.  Neither  would  have 
exacted  payment  from  her;  but  that  was  no  reason 
why  the  town  shouldn't  pay  something  for  keeping 
her.  Indeed,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  not  only 


110  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

these  two  men,  but  many  another  substantial  citizen, 
would  have  argued  that  whoever,  not  being  a  rela 
tive,  and  so  bound  to  support  her,  should  undertake 
her  maintenance,  ought,  as  a  matter  of  right  to  his 
neighbors,  to  accept  from  the  common  treasury  some 
payment  for  his  pains.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which 
all  could  contribute.  This  way  of  looking  at  the 
matter  would  not  long  have  survived  any  considera 
ble  increase  in  the  number  of  the  poor.  But  Huckle- 
bury  had  hardly  any  paupers.  A  blind  man,  a  para 
lytic,  and  one  or  two  old  people  who  had,  like  Widow 
Baker,  outlived  their  relations  and  means  of  subsist 
ence,  comprised  the  entire  list.  Every  year  the 
selectmen  put  them  up  at  auction,  after  town-meet 
ing;  and  on  this  small  scale,  and  among  such'  simple 
and  kind-hearted  folks,  the  plan  worked  well. 

The  deacon,  softened  by  his  own  recent  grief,  and 
touched  with  the  remembrance  of  the  relations  be 
tween  his  lost  Cynthy  and  the  Widow  Baker,  had 
made  up  his  mind  at  once  and  irrevocably  to  give 
the  latter  a  home  in  his  own  household.  He  didn't 
mean  to  wait  for  the  auction  even.  He  would  take 
her  in,  if  he  had  to  pay  her  whole  support  himself. 
But,  of  course,  he  would  bid,  like  other  people;  and 
no  false  delicacy  would  prevent  him  from  accepting 
the  stipend  which  the  selectmen  were  bound  to  pay. 


WIDOW  BAKER.  117 


CHAPTER   III. 

BOARD    AND    LODGING. 

WIDOW  BAKER  was  in  her  sitting-room  alone.  It 
was  not  a  handsome  apartment :  indeed,  it  had  no 
element  of  beauty  except  that  spotless  neatness  which 
is  the  sole  adornment  within  the  reach  of  poor  folks. 
People  used  to  say,  "  Widder  Baker's  settin'-room  's 
as  clean  's  a  June  sky,"  and  the  expression  carried  a 
senste  of  thoroughness  with  it  \vhich  was  well  deserved. 
One  was  sure  that  under  the  clean  rag-carpet  there 
was  an  unstained  floor,  that  the  shining  brass  candle 
sticks  on  the  mantelpiece  hid  no  lurking  windrows 
of  dust,  that  under  the  settee,  and  behind  the  doors, 
and  aw  ays  on  the  top- shelf  of  the  dresser,  a  bride 
might  have  rubbed  the  finger  of  her  white  kid  glove 
without  sullying  its  purity.  Just  so  unspotted  of  the 
world  seemed  Widow  Baker  herself  as  she  sat  in  her 
high-backed  rocking-ch-air,  with  her  snowy  cap,  and 
her  kerchief  crossed  on  her  breast,  the  great  Bible 
open  on  her  knee,  and  lying  on  its  ample  page  her 
hands,  clasped,  and  holding  her  silver-rimmed  specta 
cles.  It  could  not  be  a  mere  coincidence  that  the 
folded  hands  covered  the  words,  "  Though  He  slay  me, 
yet  will  I  trust  in  him." 


118  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

The  widow's  eyes  were  turned  to  the  wide  pros 
pect  that  spread  itself  beneath  her  windows;  but  -she 
seemed  to  be  looking  far  beyond  over  the  blue  horizon, 
beyond  the  valley  fields,  where  the  thick  stubble  told 
of  the  fruitful  harvest ;  beyond  the  comfortable  farm 
houses,  sending  up  banners  of  hospitality  from  their 
chimneys  into  the  frosty  air ;  beyond  the  fire-tipped 
steeple  of  the  Hucklebury  meeting-house ;  beyond  the 
floating  clouds  and  the  crystal  sky,  —  to  "a  better 
country,  that  is,  an  heavenly." 

Deacon  Peabody  drove  up  to  the  gate,  descended 
from  his  shay,  hitched  his  horse  (a  superfluous  pro 
ceeding),  and  walked  into  the  house,  shouting  to  the 
widow  as  he  passed  the  window,  "  Don't  ye  git  up 
now  ;  jest  set  there  comfortable,  '11'  I'll  open  the  door 
myself."  But  she  arose,  nevertheless,  and  met  him 
at  the  threshold  with  a  smile  of  grateful  welcome. 

44  This  is  very  good  of  you,  Deacon,"  she  said,  "  to 
think  of  me  in  your  own  sorrow." 

44  Yes,"  said  the  deacon,  not  meaning  to  accept  the 
praise  exactly,  but  following  a  habit  of  his, —  "  yes,  I 
thought  I'd  come  over  'n.'  see  how  ye  was  gittin'  along. 
Putty  cold  spell  yesterday  'n'  to-day." 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke,  with  a  sudden  doubt 
whether  she  had  heard  the  whole  of  the  evil  tidings 
concerning  her  own  fate,  —  the  loss  of  her  last  son, 
and  the  impending  loss  of  home.  Her  placid  air 
told  him  little;  and  it  was  to  cover  his  embarrassment 
that  he  plunged  into  the  subject,  yet  with  an  instinc- 


WJDOIV   HAKER.  119 

tive  delicacy  that  the  squire  could  never  have  imi 
tated. 

44  We're  right  lonesome  down  to  our  house,  Miss 
Baker,  Susan  'n'  me  ;  V  it  occurred  to  my  mind  that 
p'raps  you'd  be  willin'  to  come  down  V  spend  a  —  stay 
as  long  "s  ye  could,  'n'  keep  us  company,  Susan  'n'  me. 
Susan  misses  her  ma  —  'n'  so  do  J.  You  was  a  good 
friend  to  my  Cynthy,  'n'  I  cal'late  you'd  be  a  good 
friend  to  her  darter.  'S  long's  you  expected  to  meet 
Jotham  agin,  it  was  nateral  to  want  to  keep  a  home 
for  him.  But  "  - 

Here  the  deacon,  remembering  that  perhaps  she  did 
not  know  of  Jotham's  death,  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
and  then  continued,  "  But  ye  know,  if  Jotham  should 
come  back,  he'd  be  welcome  too.  Jotham's  company 
is  worth  more'n  his  board  any  day." 

44  Pliineas  Peabody,"  said  the  widow  earnestly, 
4kyou  come  like  an  answer  to  prayer!  There's  no 
news  of  my  boy  ;  and  I  should  be  wearied  with  wait 
ing  if  I  didn't  know,  that,  wherever  he  is,  he  has  not 
forgotten  his  mother.  But  I  am  sure  he  would  not 
wish  me  to  be  a  burden  on  my  friends  ;  and  that  I 
shall  be,  if  I  try  to  keep  up  the  farm  any  longer.  I'm 
too  good  a  housekeeper,  Deacon,  not  to  have  found 
out  that  the  squire  has  helped  a  good  deal  this  year. 
There's  more  oats  and  corn  and  potatoes  than  my  half 
of  the  crops,  and  yet  there'll  be  nothing  to  pay  inter 
est  or  debts.  If  Jotham  comes  back,  he  ought  to 
start  fair;  and  so  —  I've  made  up  my  mind — that 


120  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

the  old  place  —  will  have  to  go.  As  for  me  —  well, 
I've  thought  over  it  a  good  deal,  and  I'm  not  ashamed, 
in  my  old  .age,  to  be  poor." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  which  the  deacon  did 
not  see,  because  of  something  in  his  own.  "  Sho 
now;  yes,  yes,"  said  the  deacon  hastily:  "don't  ye 
worry  about  that.  You  jest  come  'n'  visit  with  Susan 
'n'  me.  That  reminds  me,  I  want  you  to  kind  o'  doc 
tor  up  Susan  a  little.  There's  suthin'  the  matter 
with  her.  She  misses  her  ma,  V  she  don't  have  her 
uzhal  appetite." 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation,  the  deacon's 
shay  carried  Widow  Baker  to  her  new  home  ;  and  the 
deacon's  lumber-wagon  and  ox-team  followed  with  a 
load  of  bedding  and  furniture,  —  only  ^  one  load, 
enough  to  furnish  a  single  room.  Close  upon  this 
event  followed  an  auction  of  all  the  remaining  per 
sonal  property  of  the  Baker  family.  The  proceeds 
amounted  to  very  little,  —  about  two  hundred  dollars, 
—  and  the  squire,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  the 
community,  claimed  the  money  in  payment  of  his 
own  advances  during  the  past  two  years.  It  seemed 
to  contradict  his  previous  generous  behavior ;  but  the 
squire  explained  his  conduct  to  the  deacon  in  few 
words.  "  Two  hundred  dollars  amounts  to  nothin','' 
said  he;  "but,  's  long's  the  widder's  got  any  money, 
we  can't  take  her  up  'n  support  her,  accordin'  to  law. 
She'd  hev  to  spend  all  her  money  fust.  You  jest  give 
her  a,  hint,  Deacon  :  if  she  wants  any  spendin'  money, 


WIDOW  BAKFR. 

she  can  draw  on  me,  V  I'll  make  it  right,  besides,  in 
my  will."  Moreover,  it  turned  out  that  the  squire 
had  bought  all  the  household  stuff  himself:  so  it  was 
his  o\vn  money  he  was  saving  for  the  widow. 

Xext  came  the  auction  of  the  farm  under  the  fore 
closure.  That  was  bought  by  Lawyer  Marigold,  who, 
being  able  without  cash  expenditure  to  offer  the  full 
sum  expressed  in  the  mortgage,  had  no  competitors. 
After  the  sale,  however,  there  was  a  friendly  and 
shrewd  conversation  between  the  lawyer  and  the 
deacon,  which  resulted  in  the  absolute  purchase  of 
the  farm  by  the  latter  for  five  hundred  dollars. 

Then  came  the  queerest  action  of  all,  —  the  sale  of 
the  widow  herself.  This  was  not  carried  on  with  the 
noise  and  publicity  of  an  ordinary  public  sale.  The 
selectmen  and  freeholders  simply  talked  the  matter 
over,  and  the  few  paupers  of  Hucklebury  were 
allotted  to  the  lowest  bidders  for  the  privilege  of 
boarding  them.  As  for  the  Widow  Baker,  there  was 
quite  an  animated  competition  for  her.  Plenty  of 
people  were  willing  to  take  her  at  small  profit,  and  a 
few  offered  to  accept  the  bare  cost  of  her  subsistence. 
But  when  the  squire  and  the  deacon  began  to  bid 
below  cost,  "the  boldest  held  their  breath  for  a 
time."  They  ran  down  the  scale  with  prudence,  yet 
with  firmness,  until  at  last  Phineas  Peabody  having 
bi  1*  two  shillings  a  week  —  equivalent  to  thirty-three 
and  one-third  cents  —  the  squire  said,  "  Wai,  Deacon, 
this  is  gittin'  redic'lous.  Ef  ye  don't  look  out,  ye 


122  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

\\on 't  realize  nothin'  at  all.  But,  sence  you're  bound 
to  have  the  widder,  I'll  give  up  ;  '11'  I  must  say  it's 
the  best  thing  for  both  on  ye." 

All  of  which  was  quite  unknown  to  the  good  old 
lady,  who  went  on,  in  her  quiet,  cheerful  resignation, 
**  visiting"  at  the  deacon's  house.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  money  which  the  deacon  gave  her  every  Sun 
day  to  put  into  the  contribution-plate  (aside  from  his 
own  contribution,  let  us  add)  was  the  price  of  her 
board.  But,  if  she  had  known  it,  her  esteem  for  the 
deacon  would  not  have  been  diminished;  for  she 
would  have  understood,  as  a  stranger  in  Huckle- 
bury  could  not  have  done,  the  combination  of  genuine 
kindness  with  habitual  business-like  exactness  and 
economy  which  formed  a  part  of  the  local  character. 
In  fact,  the  deacon  was  more  delicate  in  his  generosity 
than  any  of  his  neighbors  would  have  been.  It  is 
true,  not  even  they  ever  alluded  to  the  widow's  pov 
erty  in  her  presence;  but  that  was  chiefly  because  it 
did  not  occur  to  them  as  a  matter  separating  them 
and  her  in  any  way.  Their  treatment  of  the  poor, 
however  disguised  beneath  the  hard  forms  of  a  bar 
gain,  was  in  spirit  more  like  the  Christian  commun 
ism  of  the  New7  Testament  than  like  the  almsgiving 
of  ancient  (and  modern)  Pharisees. 

But,  as  a  bargain,  the  boarding  of  the  Widow 
Baker  was  an  unqualified  success.  It  soon  proved 
that  she,  and  not  her  host,  bestowed  benefaction. 
What  a  blessing  in  the  house  is  a  serene  and  wise 


WIDOW  BAKER.  123 

soul !  What  a  contagious  peace  is  that  which  is  the 
fruit  of  sorrow  rightly  borne !  The  widow's  un 
worldly  spirit  was  not  that  of  a  dreamer.  She  was 
full  of  activity  and  helpfulness.  She  did  not  run 
from  barn  to  kitchen,  and  from  attic  to  cellar,  like 
Susan ;  yet  her  directing  mind  was  everywhere,  and 
a  new  spirit  of  system  and  order  began  to  pervade  the 
establishment.  The  deceased  Mrs.  Cynthia  Peabody 
had  been  one  of  those  restless  housekeepers  who 
"  fuss  "  when  they  are  well,  and  worry  when  they  are 
sick  ;  and  Susan,  as  the  result  of  her  tuition,  was  apt 
to  bustle  more,  and  plan  less,  than  circumstances  re 
quired.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  how,  after  the  com 
mand  of  affairs  had  gradually  lapsed  into  the  old 
lady's  hands,  every  thing  began  to  work  smoothly 
in  doors  and  out.  The  very  hired  men  on  the  farm 
caught  the  new  fashion.  The  yard  and  the  barn 
emulated  the  house  in  orderly  neatness.  The  old 
white  horse  and  the  shay  and  harness  were  curried, 
washed,  and  oiled  into  new  youth  and  beauty.  The 
deacon's  shirt- bosoms,  and,  what  was  more  important, 
the  deacon's  brow,  appeared  without  a  crease  or 
wrinkle.  And,  as  a  consequence  of  this  universal 
decrease  of  friction,  there  was  a  saving  of  power  in 
the  whole  machinery  of  house  and  farm.  A  shrewd 
observer  like  the  deacon  could  not  fail  to  see  that  the 
presence  of  this  motherly  guest  was  not  only  pleasant 
but  profitable.  And  Squire  Hawkins  saw  it  too,  and 
summed  it  im  very  neatly,  when,  in  reply  to  old 


124  CAMP  AND  CAlttN. 

Westcott's  remark  that  "the  deacon  couldn't  be  mak- 
in'  much,  boardin'  Granny  Baker  at  two  shillin'  a 
week,"  he  replied,  "  Wai,  now,  I  dunno's  Phiueas 
Peabody  kin  make  money  so  fast  any  other  way  as 
by  boardin'  Mis'  Baker  at  two  shillin'  a  week.  I  tell 
ye,  Westcott,  'godliness  is  profitable;'  V  the  kind 
that  Widder  Baker  has  got  is  the  quickest-pay  in' 
investment  y'  ever  see." 

This  remark  was  made  the  week  before  Christmas, 
when  Westcott  was  distributing  invitations  to  his 
daughter's  wedding  with  the  gentleman  from  Boston. 
Hence  the  squire's  concluding  observation  was  not 
without  point :  "  I  won't  undertake  to  say  iiothin' 
about  young  Jotham  ;  but  it's  sartin'  sure  as  you  live, 
Westcott,  your  Nancy's  missed  the  best  mother-in-law 
that  ever  was  raised  in  these  parts.  They  don't  hev 
'em  so  good  as  that  in  Boston." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

SUSAN    PEABODY. 

OF  all  who  were  blessed  by  the  saintly  and  yet 
practical  influence  of  the  Widow  Baker,  Susan  was, 
and  had  reason  to  be,  the  most  grateful.  She  found 
what  she  had  hitherto  greatly  lacked  in  two  direc- 


WIDOW  BAKER.  125 

tions,  —  wise  counsel  in  her  daily  duties  on  the  one 
hand,  and  sympathy  for  all  her  aspirations  on  the 
other.  It  was  Susan  who  first  began  to  call  the 
widow  "Mother  Baker;  "  and  Phineas  and  the  whole 
household  followed  her  example.  Indeed,  it  spread 
through  the  town;  for  she  seemed  like  a  mother  to 
everybody. 

No  one  ever  heard  her  complain;  and  seldom  did 
she  speak  of  the  sorrows  of  the  past.  But  somehow, 
to  Susan  it  was  natural  for  her  to  talk  about  old 
times,  and  that  led  to  the  mention  of  later  and  later 
times,  until  at  last  all  their  conversations  wound  up 
with  Jotham,  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome.  The  dif 
ference  between  them  was,  that,  while  Mother  Baker 
gradually  settled  into  the  conviction  that  her  son  was 
no  longer  on  earth,  and  ranked  him  in  her  thoughts 
with  the  host  of  dear  ones  that  waited  for  her  in  the 
new  home  that  could  not  decay,  nor  be  broken  and 
scattered,  Susan  vehemently  insisted  that  Jotham 
was  still  alive,  and  would  return.  "  Two  years  is  not 
so  very  long,"  she  used  to  'urge.  "People  are  often 
missing  for  tw-o  years,  —  particularly  in  the  East 
Indies/' 

And  that  creature,  Nancy  Westcott,  had  a  letter 
from  Jotham  in  her  pocket,  and  never  told  anybody ! 
It  was  rather  embarrassing  to  her;  and  like  a  good 
many  of  us,  when  caught  in  the  current  of  trouble 
some  circumstances,  she  drifted  in  the  vague  hope 
that  matters  would  somehow  fix  themselves.  The 


126  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

chief  elements  of  the  case  were  these  :  first,  she  never 
had  loved  him  "  so  very  much  as  all  that;  "  secondly, 
his  letter  did  not  arrive  until  she  had  as  good  as 
accepted  the  Boston  gentleman ;  thirdly,  its  contents 
were  not  satisfactory,  as  they  told  of  shipwreck  and 
disaster,  and  offered  no  other  hope  than  that  of  further 
waiting  until  he  could  make  a  new  start  with  "  an 
idea  "  that  he  had, — for  all  the  world  just  like  his 
shiftless  father;  fourthly,  of  course  he  had  written 
to  his  mother,  and  she  knew  all  about  it,  and  had 
probably  informed  him  that  Miss  Westcott  had  thrown 
him  overboard  figuratively  about  the  time  that  the 
typhoon  had  done  him  the  same  service  literally; 
fifthly,  why  should  she  go  to  see  his  mother,  just  be 
cause  he  asked  it,  or  write  a  letter  to  meet  him  on  his 
arrival  at  Boston,  which,  of  course,  the  Boston  gentle 
man  would  not  approve?  sixthly,  she  would  decide 
to-morrow  or  next  day  what  to  do  about  it;  seventhly, 
she  forgot  all  about  it,  except  so  far  as  an  occasional 
momentary  uneasiness  might  be  called  a  recollection. 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  those  who  longed  to  see  the 
living  Jotham  knew  not  of  his  coming,  while  she  who 
knew  it  was  not  at  all  desirous  of  it.  Once  she  might 
have  told  Susan  as  they  met  on  the  meeting-hous3 
steps ;  but  Susan  was  "  huffy,"  and  carried  her  head 
very  high,  which  made  Miss  Westcott  huffy  likewise  : 
so  they  marched  asunder,  keeping  their  own  secrets.- 
"  Heartless  thing !  "  soliloquized  Susan.  "  She's  mad," 
thought  Nancy,  "  because  I'm  engaged,  and  she  ain't. 


WIDOW  BAKER.  127 

Shouldn't  wonder  if  she  stands  up  for  Jotham  Baker : 
she  was  always  a  friend  o'  his'n, —  nothin'  more'n  a 
friend,  though,  that's  one  comfort.  He's  told  me  so 
a  dozen  times."  Even  after  discarding  her  humbler 
lover,  she  didn't  quite  like  to  think  of  his  "  takin' 
up  "  with  anybody  else. 

As  for  Susan,  concealment  was  no  "worm  i'  the 
bud"  of  her  cheek.  Since  the  coming  of  Mother 
Baker  she  had  grown  contented  and  even  happy. 
She  sang  in  the  choir,  and  taught  in  the  Sunday 
school,  went  to  sewing-society  and  quiltings,  patron 
ized  the  very  young  gentlemen  (who  could  be  kept  at 
a  distance),  made  butter  and  pies,  dried  apples,  pre 
served  quinces,  and  attended  to  other  duties  daily 
and  periodically,  each. in  its  season,  as  the  almanac 
indicated,  and  with  it  all  read  poetry,  and  thought 
a  good  deal  about  Jotham,  —  in  a  sisterly  manner,  of 
course,  and  merely  by  way  of  indignation  at  the  wrong 
that  had  been  done  him,  and  query  whether  he  would 
feel  it  so  much,  when  he  should  come  home,  as  to  go 
right  away  again  in  his  despair.  That  would  be 
very  wrong,  and  she  would  certainly  tell  him  so.  It 
would  be  his  duty  to  stay  —  on  his  mother's  account. 

A  fortnight  before  Christmas  came  the  cards  which 
formally  announced,  what  everybody  knew,  the  cere 
mony  of  Miss  Westcott's  wedding.  It  was  to  be  the 
sensation  of  the  age  for  Hucklebury.  Every  thing 
was  to  be  imported  from  Boston  for  the  occasion, 
u  down  to  the  vittles  and  fiddlers."  As  Squire  Haw- 


128  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

kins  said,  adding,  in  his  disenchanting  way,  "  the  set- 
tm'-room  is  goin'  to  be  jest  kivered  with  hemlock,  'n' 
I  hev  heerd  that  they  intend  to  light  up  the  stoop 
'n'  the  yard."  Of  course  everybody  was.  eager  to  be 
invited ;  and  nobody  was  disappointed.  Miss  West- 
cott  would  riot  willingly  omit  a  single  witness  to  her 
triumph. 

Susan  flung  the  cards  into  Mother  Baker's  lap,  with 
a  passionate  exclamation  of  contempt.  "  To  think  !  " 
said  she,  "  after  the  way  she  treated  Jotham  !  I  won't 
go  near  her  horrid  wedding !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  placid  old  lady,  with  that  in 
nocent  air  which  old  ladies  can  assume  when  they  are 
up  to  mischief,  "  you  were  a  good  friend  to  Jotharn, 
and  if  he  were  alive  "  — 

"  lie  is  alive  !  I  know  he  is,"  interrupted  Susan. 

"  Well,  do  you  want  him  to  come  home  and  marry 
Nancy  AVestcott  against  her  will  ?  She  was  not  bound 
to  him,  you  know  ;  and  she  has  found  somebody  who 
is  better  suited  to  her." 

"  How  she  could  ever  prefer  that  dandy  to  Jo 
tham  !  "  said  Susan  hotly. 

"  We  wouldn't,  of  course,"  replied  Mother  Baker. 
"  But  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes;  and,  if  you  stay 
away  from  her  wedding  on  that  account,  won't  folks 
say  you  think  too  much  of  • —  Jotham's  mother  ?  " 

This  suggestion  was  sheer  nonsense  ;  but  it  had  a 
startling  effect  upon  Susan,  who  turned  red  and  white 
in  a  moment,  then  blushed  again  to  think  that  she 


WIDOW  VAKEK.  129 

had  blushed,  and  at  last  said  that  she  was  sure  there 
\vas  something  burning  in  the  kitchen,  whither  she 
departed  with  all  speed,  and  proceeded  to  quench  the 
something  that  was  burning  by  plunging  her  face  into 
a  basinful  of  cold  water.  The  active  preparations 
which  began  next  day,  in  the  way  of  clear-starching 
and  ironing,  indicated  sufficiently  that  Susan  was 
going  to  the  party. 


CHAPTER   V. 

JOTHAM. 

IN  due  course  of  time  Mr.  Jotham  Baker,  follow 
ing  pretty  close  upon  his  letter,  landed  in  Boston, 
and,  finding  no  news  from  home,  made  his  way  with 
all  haste  to  his  native  town  of  Hucklebury.  It  was 
already  dark  when  he  arrived  at  the  Center,  where 
the  stage  stopped.  Curiously  enough  he  couldn't 
find  a  horse  or  a  sleigh  in  the  place.  The  tavern- 
keeper  (a  stranger  to  him)  said  they  were  all  gone  to 
AVestcott's.  Very  well  :  the  rest  of  the  way,  a  good 
two-hours'  walk,  he  would  have  to  make  on  foot; 
but  he  stopped  long  enough  to  call  at  Lawyer  Mari 
gold's  for  the  purpose  of  getting  some  news  from 
home.  The  girl  who  came  to  the  door  did  not  recog- 


130  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

nize  him,  for  two  good  reasons.  In  the  first  place, 
his  full  beard  had  changed  his  appearance  :  in  the 
second  place,  she  had  never  seen  him,  with  or  without 
a  beard.  So  she  told  him  merely  that  Mr.  Marigold 
had  gone  to  Westcott's,  like  everybody  else,  and  shut 
the  door  in  his  face,  with  a  promptness  due  to  Hie 
coldness  of  the  wintry  air.  The  reply  was  a  sort  of 
omen  to  him  ;  and,  vaguely  wondering  why  everybody 
had  gone  to  Westcott's,  lie  started  off  at  a  swinging 
pace  over  the  crisp  snow,  bound  for  the  same  destina 
tion.  That  is,  he  started  to  go  home  ;  but  the  road 
would  lead  him  past  A\restcott's. 

Jotham,  striding  along  the  highway  under  the  stars, 
was  certainly  a  comely  young  fellow.  Two  years  of 
adventure  had  made  him  stouter  and  browner,  and 
for  a  shipwrecked  wanderer  he  had  a  strange  well-to- 
do  appearance.  People  reduced  to  the  extremity  of 
poverty  don't  have  such  substantial  baggage  as  the 
valise  he  had  left  in  the  Eagle  Tavern,  Ilucklebury 
Center,  nor  wear  such  comfortable  clothes  as  those  in 
which  he  was  now  hastening  homeward. 

His  thoughts,  as  he  swiftly  pursued  his  solitary 
way,  were  not  altogether  pleasant.  First  of  all,  he 
reproached  himself  for  having  left  his  mother  alone 
two  years  before,  and  wondered  whether  Squire  Haw 
kins  had  been,  according  to  promise,  a  true  friend,  to 
her.  Jotham  did  not  doubt  that  'his  mother  knew  of 
his  return.  To  her  he  had  written  fully  more  than 
once.  AVhy  she  had  never  received  a  single  letter 


WIDOW  BAKER.  131 

from  him  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  post-office, 
which,  dear  reader,  the  author  is  sorry  to  say  nobody 
can  clear  up :  hence  it  must  be  allowed  to  remain  a 
mystery,  as  it  is  far  too  late  now  to  ask  for  its  inves 
tigation  by  a  committee.  Of  all  this  Jotham  was 
ignorant,  but  tormented  himself,  as  he  walked,  with 
imagining  what  might  have  happened  to  his  mother. 
Once  lie  stopped  suddenly  —  what  if  she  were  dead  ! 
Then  he  .started  again  with  violent  speed,  saying 
aloud,  "No,  no,  no!"  as  if  such  a  protest  could  af 
fect  the  irrevocable  past. 

Then  he  thought  of  Nancy  Westcott.  What  a 
strange  thing  it  was,  that,  once  out  of  her  presence, 
he  had  found  it  so  hard  to  believe  in  her  sincerity ! 
That  letter  which  he  had  written  to  try  her  now 
seemed,  on  the  whole,  not  a  very  honorable  thing; 
though  he  had  thought  it  fair  at  the  time.  Instead 
of  telling  her  of  his  shipwreck,  leaving  her  to  infer 
that  he  was  ruined,  and  asking  her  if  she  could  wait 
for  him  a  little  longer,  in  the  secret  hope  that  she 
would  not  stand  the  test,  he  should  have  confessed 
frankly  his  own  discovery  that  what  he  had  thought 
love  wras  only  a  transitory  glamour. 

i4  Jotham,"  said  Jotham,  "you  are  well  paid  for 
your  shrewdness.  You  wanted  to  escape,  and  at  the 
same  time  have  the  credit  of  being  constant,  though 
you  pretended  to  me  that  it  was  your  firm  intention 
and  desire  to  remain  true  to  the  girl  if  she  was  true 
to  you.  Now  you've  got  to  face  the  music.  What  if 


132  CAMP  AND   CAlllN. 

she  is  true  to  you  ?  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  was  ; 
it's  as  likely  as  not ;  it's  very  probable ;  by  gracious, 
Jotham  Baker,  I  believe  it's  so !  Ugh,  \vhat  a  cold 
night !  —  and  yet  this  walking  makes  a  fellow  per 
spire  ! 

"  And  there's  Susan  Peabody,  Jotham  :  what  do  you 
think  of  her?  If  you  hadn't  made  a  fool  of  yourself 
with  Nancy,  you  might  have  had  some  chance,  per 
haps,  with  Susan.  But  she  despised  you  after  you 
went  and  gushed  to  her  your  silly  nonsense  about  the 
other  one.  Don't  you  recollect  when  you  told  her? 
She  never  wTas  the  same  to  you  after  it  came  out  who 
the  girl  was.  No  wonder :  she  wras  disappointed  in 
you.  /  saw  it,  if  you  didn't.  She  had  thought  you 
had  more  sense.  Don't  flatter  yourself  she  ever  loved 
you,  Jotham  ;  she  never  dreamed  of  that:  but  she  re 
spected  you  until  you  made  a  fool  of  yourself.  And 
you  might  have  gone  on  from  that  to  —  O  you  don 
key  !  " 

He  took  a  grim  pleasure  in  this  sarcastic  soliloquy. 
But  self-castigation  soon  tires  both  the  executioner 
and  the  victim;  and  his  muttered  eloquence  ended 
in  a  sigh  as  he  approached  the  Westcott  mansion, 
now7  glorious  with  streaming  lights,  and  musical  with 
voices  and  violins.  The  impulse  of  curiosity  was  too 
strong  to  be  resisted,  and,  crossing  the  yard  unnoticed, 
he  gained  a  shadowred  corner  by  one  of  the  front- 
windows,  whence  he  could  survey  the  festive  scene. 

Almost  the  first  person  he  distinguished  from  the 


WIDOW  BAKER.  133 

gay  confusion  was  a  dazzling  being  in  white  satin, 
with  china-blue  eyes,  and  flaxen  locks  erected  into  a 
stupendous  structure  above  them,  surrounded  with  a 
cloud  of  gauzy  veil,  and  looking,  on  the  \vhole,  like 
a  child  substituted  at  the  last  moment  for  some  larger 
bride,  so  that  thj  wedding-dress  should  not  be  wasted. 
Only  a  second  glance  showed  that  the  features  were 
not  merely  childish.  There  was  full-grown  triumph 
in  them,  and  a  complete  consciousness  of  the  business 
aspects  of  matrimony.  Jotham  recognized  at  once 
the  lady  who  would  henceforward  be  known  in  Xew- 
England  phrase  as  "she  that  was  Nancy  Westcott." 
The  marriage  was  already  over,  and  Miss  Westcott 
was  Mrs. —  no,  I  won't  give  the  name:  I  don't 
mean  to  pain  anybody  if  I  can  help  it ;  and  the  fact  is, 
that  the  Boston  gentleman  some  years  after,  having 
lost  all  his  money  by  extravagance  and  speculation, 
signed  another  Boston  gentleman's  name  to  a  check, 
and  left  the  country.  All  the  parties  are  dead  long 
ago  ;  but  how  do  I  know  but  they  have' relatives  yet 
living,  —  relatives  a  great  deal  larger  than  I  am? 

In  another  instant  Jotham  saw  Susan.  Her  dark 
hair  and  earnest  eyes ;  her  cheek,  paler  than  when  he 
had  looked  upon  it  last ;  her  plain  muslin  dress,  that 
showed  so  little  fashion,  and  so  much  taste  ;  every 
thing  about  her,  in  short,  made  her  a  complete  con 
trast  to  the  bride.  To  Jotham  she  seemed  at  once 
more  beautiful  and  more  unapproachable  than  ever 
before.  There  was  a  new  expression  on  her  face, 


134  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

which,  of  course,  the  foolish  fellow  could  not  read; 
the  work  of  sorrow  and  patience  bearing  fruit  of 
peace.  All  he  felt  was  that  she  reminded  him 
strangely  of  his  mother,  and  that  somehow,  in  spite 
of  that,  she  was  far  beyond  his  reach.  He  could 
never  talk  with  brotherly  freedom  to  that  dignified 
and  lovely  woman :  he  could  only  fall  at  her  feet, 
and  lie  there  till  she  left  him  in  disdain. 

As  for  the  dandy  in  a  white  cravat,  on  whose  arm 
"she  that  was  Nancy  AVestcott  "  promenaded  through 
the  room,  Jotham  paid  no  attention  to  him ;  and  why 
should  we  consider  him?  We  always  knew  he  would 
turn  out  badly,  didn't  we?  To  our  hero  he  served  as 
a  slim  piece  of  collateral  evidence,  corroborating  the 
white  satin  and  veil  and  orange-blossoms.  Who  he 
was  didn't  matter.  He  was  not  Jotham  Baker  —  Hal 
lelujah  ! 

But  man  is  ungrateful,  and  Jotham  was  not  satis 
fied  with  his  happy  escape.  He  had  made  the  impor 
tant  discovery  that  he  didn't  want  Nancy  because  he 
did  want  Susan  ;  and,  being  a  young  man  of  decision, 
he  would  not  waste  further  time  in  useless  repinings 
at  the  window.  And  he  turned  resolutely  away  to 
pursue  his  journey  homeward. 

But,  as  he  passed  the  door,  it  was  opened  wide,  and 
an  imposing  sable  gentleman  in  white  cotton  gloves 
addressed  him  cordially  with,  u  Second  story  front, 
sah  !  "  This  was  one  of  the  features  imported  for 
the  occasion  from  Boston,  —  a  darkey  to  open  the  door 


WIDOW  BAKER.  135 

whenever  he  heard  steps  approaching.  And  our 
young  man  of  decision,  having  determined  to  walk 
straight  by,  and  being  suddenly  tempted  by  this  dark 
and  mysterious  providence,  was  deflected  ninety  de 
grees  from  his  course,  and  walked  straight  in. 

Now,  it  happened  that  Nancy  Westcott,  just  before 
coming  down  stairs  to  be  married,  had  had  occasion 
to  rummage  her  bureau  for  a  smelling-bottle,  or  a 
hair-pin,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  had  suddenly 
come  upon  Jotham's  letter,  which,  as  a  well-regulated 
person,  she  ought  to  have  destroyed  long  before. 
There  were  too  many  wromen-folk  fussing  round  to 
make  it  safe  to  destroy  it  now :  so,  with  a  hopeless 
glance  at  the  fire,  she  thrust  it  into  her  dress,  say 
ing  merely,  —  and  that  not  for  anybody's  hearing,  — 
"  Goodness  gracious ! "  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that 
she  was  actually  married  with  Jotham's  letter  in  her 
bosom,  —  a  horribly  improper  state  of  affairs  ! 

During  the  solemn  ceremony,  which  the  parson  made 
long  enough  to  permit,  if  not  to  necessitate,  some  wan 
dering  of  the  thoughts,  she  perceived  Susan  Peabody, 
and  made  up  her  mind  that  Susan  looked  "  stuck  up," 
and  didn't  half  realize  the  splendor  of  the  occasion. 
Of  course,  if  Susan  was  not  suitably  impressed,  the 
admiration  of  all  the  rest  would  not  suffice.  That's 
human  'nature  since  the  days  of  Haman.  So,  later 
in  the  evening,  in  fact,  just  at  the  moment  when 
Jotham  left  the  window,  she  got  an  opportunity  to 
worry  Susan,  and  began  to  do  it  with  feminine  skill. 


136  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"You  haven't  been  introduced  to  my  husband, 
Susan.  You'd  like  him,  I  know.  He  says  you're 
the  most  distangy  woman  in  the  room.  But  you  an' 
me  mustn't  be  rivals  —  agin.  Hev  you  heard  from 
Jo  — from  Mr.  Baker  lately?  " 

This  was  even  more  cruel  than  Nancy  intended ;  for 
she  really  supposed  the  fact  of  Jotham's  return  was 
known  to  his  friends,  though  she  had  never  told  of  it, 
because  she  did  not  care  to  reveal  her  recent  recep 
tion  of  his  letter.  It  was  much  simpler  to  let  her 
friends  say,  as  they  did,  that  there  never  had  been 
any  thing  between  him  and  her,  —  at  least,  nothing 
more  than  a  flirtation. 

But  Susan  was  on  her  guard,  and  Nancy  was  no 
match  for  her.  Without  a  sign  of  any  emotion,  not 
even  scorn  —  she  said  slowly,  "  Mr  Baker  has  reason 
to  congratulate  himself." 

That  made  Nancy  "  as  mad  as  fire."  She  under 
stood  by  it  more  than  was  meant ;  for  it  led  her  to 
suppose  that  Jotham,  having  been  informed  of  her 
faithlessness,  had  pretended  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
her.  Her  breast  heaved  with  passion,  and  fortunately 
(the  bridal  dress  being  a  tight  fit)  that  very  heaving 
made  her  aware  of  Jotham's  letter :  otherwise  there 
might  have  been  a  "  scene."  But  this  enabled  her  to 
restrain  her  wrath,  and  to  say,  in  tones  that  attracted 
no  attention  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  "  Perhaps 
he  tries  to  make  you  think  so,  Miss  Feabody.  But 
that  ain't  the  way  he  writes  to  me!  "  Whereat  she 


WIDOW  BAKER.  137 

pulled  out  the  letter,  thrust  it  into  Susan's  hand,  and 
sailed  away  with  her  nose  in  the  air,  inwardly  con 
scious  that  she  had  done  a  very  foolish  thing,  and  not 
at  all  aware  that  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
been  done  for  everybody  but  herself. 

Susan  recognized  the  handwriting ;  seized  the  let 
ter;  forgot  Nancy,  the  company,  every  thing;  made 
her  escape  blindly  out  of  the  room ;  and  rushed  up 
stairs  to  the  ladies'  dressing-room  (second  story  back), 
clasping  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Jotham  was  alive! 

Nobody  was  in  the  rotmi.  She  could  read  the  letter 
unobserved.  In  her  tumultuous  happiness  she  was 
about  to  kiss  it;  but  her  eye  fell  on  the  address, — 
"Miss  Nancy  Westcott "  (she  had  forgotten  for  a  mo 
ment  to  whom  the  letter  had  been  written).  As  for 
kissing  "Miss  Nancy  Westcott "  -that  was  a  little 
too  much.  But  she  did  open  the  paper,  and  put  to 
her  lips  a  carefully-selected  spot  on  the  inside,  which 
bore  the  words,  "Yours  truly,  Jotham  Baker."  Then 
she  hastily  read  the  letter;  and  not  even  its  apparent 
testimony  that  he  still  loved  the  heartless  creature 
down  stairs  could  silence  in  her  heart  the  singing 
voice,  "Jotham  is  alive!  " 

Meanwhile  the  young  man  himself  had  left  the 
window,  walked  slowly,  though  decidedly  (as  I  have 
before  mentioned),  to  the  front-door  and  into  the 
hall,  and  was  at  this  moment  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
on  his  way  to  the  second  story  front;  so  that,  when 
Susan  raised  her  eyes  from  the  perusal  of  his  letter, 
she  saw  him  passing  the  door. 


138  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

With  a  cry  of  joy  she  sprang  forward,  calling  his 
name;  but,  as  he  turned,  she  recollected  what  must 
be  his  present  anguish,  and  said  only,  holding  out 
both  hands,  "  O  Jotham,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you !  " 

Alas !  what  a  comedy  of  errors  it  was !  Poor 
Jotham,  already  in  a  maze  of  conflicting  emotions, 
lost  his  head  entirely  at  hearing  her  friendly  words, 
and  burst  into  an  incoherent  explanation  about  Xancy 
and  his  own  affections,  out  of  which  confusion 
emerged  presently  a  declaration  of  love  to  Susan. 
This  he  made  still  worse  bj* dropping  on  his  knees 
before  her,  as  he  had  just  been  wildly  dreaming  he 
would  do  some  day.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow;  but 
no  fellow  ought  to  kneel  down  in  his  overcoat.  He 
deserved  to  be  laughed  at  for  his  pains.  But  Susan 
was  in  no  mood  for  laughing.  Her  maidenly  pride 
burned  hotly  in  cheek  and  eye.  "  Mr.  Baker,"  she 
said  with  bitter  politeness,  "now  you're  down,  per 
haps  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  pick  up  that  let 
ter.  Nancy  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  take  this  oppor 
tunity  to  return  it  to  the  writer." 

She  watched  him  with  un moving  look  as  he  clutched 
the  letter,  recognized  it,  rose,  and  staggered  from  the 
room.  Down  stairs  he  rushed,  and  past  the  astounded 
doorkeeper,  into  the  open  air.  She  listened  until  she 
heard  the  bang  with  which  the  door  closed  behind 
him;  then,  having  nothing  else  in  the  world  to  do, 
Susan  Peabody  fainted  away,  and  fell  on  the  spot 
where  he  had  knelt. 


WIDOW  BAKER.  139 

CHAPTER   VI. 

HOW   THE    WIDOW    INTERFERED. 

JOTHAM  felt,  as  he  reached  the  road,  as  if  he  had 
escaped  from  a  burning  house  in  which  was  every 
thing  he  held  dear  in  life.  But  his  second  thought 
was  of  his  mother.  He  had  her  to  live  for,  at  least; 
and  to  her  he  would  devote  himself.  So  he  hastened 
up  the  hill-road,  past  the  squire's  farm,  and  on  to  the 
well-remembered  house  where  he  expected  to  find 
her.  It  was  always  a  rather  lonesome  place ;  but  to 
night,  as  he  approached  it,  and  saw  neither  light  in 
the  windows,  nor  living  thing  about  the  yard,  a  chill 
struck  his  heart.  The  barking  of  a  dog,  or  the  de 
liberate  rising  of  a  cow  disturbed  in  her  repose  by  his 
passage,  would  have  been  most  welcome.  His  knock 
ing  at  the  door  called  forth  no  answer;  and  when, 
after  fruitless  shouting,  he  lifted  a  window-sash, 
climbed  into  the  sitting-room,  struck  a  light,  and 
found  the  place  dismantled  and  empty,  —  except  for 
that  "  litter  "  peculiar  to  an  abandoned  room,  which 
told  him  more  plainly  than  any  thing  else  that  his 
neat  and  efficient  mother  could  no  longer  be  in  au 
thority  there,  —  the  revulsion  was  overpowering.  The 
stalwart  young  fellow  dropped  his  match,  and,  lean 
ing  in  the  darkness  against  the  mantel-piece,  cried  as 


140  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

if  his  heart  would  break.  This  blow  was  indeed  the 
worst  of  all. 

A  moment  later  he  was  again  out  of  doors,  and 
rushing  down  the  hill-road  at  a  terrible  pace.  As  he 
passed  the  lane  that  turned  down  to  the  squire's 
house,  a  sleigh  came  up  with  much  clangor  of  silvery 
bells,  bringing  the  squire  and  Mrs.  Hawkins,  who 
were  just  returning  from  the  party  at  Westcott's. 

"Jerusalem!"  ejaculated  the  hearty  squire,  "  ef 
that  ain't  Jotham '  Whoa,  there !  Why,  Jptham, 
how  d'ye  do?  Where  did  ye  come  from?  'n'  how  on 
airth  —  but  here!  git  right  in,  there's  room  for  ye; 
come  right  along  to  the  house." 

"The  house  is  empty,"  said  Jotham  in  quick, 
hoarse  tones.  "What  has  happened?  Where's  my 
mother?" 

"  She's  boardin'  at  Deacon  Peabody's,"  replied  the 
squire ;  "  'n'  she  looks  twenty  years  younger  for't. 
You  jest  come  along.  Ye  can't  see  your  mother  to 
night  ;  'n'  ye  mustn't  see  her  nohow,  till  I've  put  ye  up 
to  the  news." 

So  Jotham  spent  the  rest  of  a  long  evening  and  the 
night  at  the  Hawkins's,  and  slept  soundly  in  spite  of 
his  sorrows.  The  squire  told  him  all  about  every 
thing,  dwelling  particularly  on  Susan  and  her  affec 
tion  for  his  mother,  and  much  surprised  that  Jotham 
regarded  that  subject  with  evident  pain. 

"What's  the  matter  with  ye,  Jotham?"  pursued 
the  squire.  "  Now,  I'm  a  plain  man,  'n'  I  go  to  the 


WIDOW  BAKER.  141 

pint.  It  ain't  no  use  for  you  to  worry  about  Nancy 
Westcotfc —  though  she'd  be  a  pretty  good  match, 
jest  now,  for  a  feller  as  poor's  you  be." 

"  I  don't'  care  a  sixpence  for  Nancy  Westcott,"  in 
terrupted  Jotham  sullenly,  "and  I'm  not  so  poor  as 
you  think." 

"  Why,  the  hull  cargo  was  lost,  I  cal'late :  them 
companies  wouldn't  'a'  paid  the  insurance  without 
proof  o'  that  " 

"Exactly.  They  paid  tlic  insurance,  and  my  goods 
were  insured,  as  well  as  the  rest.  I  knew  that  would 
be  all  right,  and  I  bought  a  home  cargo  on  the 
strength  of  it,  and  made  enough  by  the  voyage  to 
give  me  a  good  start." 

"  Ginger  an'  spices  haft  riz,"  said  the  squire  thought 
fully.  "  I  read  that  in  '  The  Advertiser '  last  week. 
Dew  tell!  Wai,  Jotham,  I'm  glad  on't.  But  don't 
ye  go  to  buy  in'  back  the  old  farm  :  it'll  ruin  ye,  sure." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Jotham,  "  I  shall  buy  it  at 
once,  and  sell  the  mine-hill  to  a  man  who  is  coming 
up  from  Boston  right  away  to  look  at  it." 

"  What!  "  cried  the  squire,  "  gold,  arter  all?  " 

"No;  granite." 

"  Wai,  there's  plenty  o'  that  on't,"  said  the  squire. 

"Yes;  and  it  will  be  the  best  place  for  a  quarry 
that  can  be  found  when  the  branch  railroad  is  built. 
But  I  don't  care  much  about  it  now,  except  for 
mother's  sake,"  added  Jotham  with  a  sigh. 

The   squire   looked  at  him  shrewdly.     "My  boy," 


142  CAMP  AND   CAJUN. 

said  he,  "there's  somethin'  the  matter  between  you 
an'  Susan,  'n  ye'd  better  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  ain't 
one  that'll  talk  about  it,  like  the  women-folks." 
(Mrs.  Hawkins  had  retired,  or  this  remark  would 
have  been  suppressed.) 

Jotham  made  a  clean  breast  on  this  invitation,  first 
handing  over  the  unlucky  letter  as  a  text,  and  then 
furnishing  a  full  commentary  upon  it.  At  the  con 
clusion,  the  squire  whistled  reflectively,  and  at  last 
delivered  his  opinion  :  — 

"It  looks  like  a  bad  job,  Jotham;  but  I've  seen 
wuss.  Susan  was  glad  to  see  ye  —  stick  a  pin  there! 
An'  she  was  mad  to  hev  ye  make  a  fool  o'  yourself,  'n' 
try  to  made  a  fool  o'  her.  Wai,  now,  look  at  it  cool 
an'  reasonable,  'n'  who  wouldn't  be?  I  tell  ye  what," 
continued  the  squire,  warming  up  as  he  went  on, 
"it's  all  right,  an'  so  you'll  see.  You  go  to  bed  !  " 

Meanwhile  Susan,  whom  we  left  "all  in  a  heap" 
on  the  floor  of  the  "second  story  back,"  had  recovered 
from  her  faint  without  help,  and  without  attracting 
attention.  Of  course  her  first  act  was  to  scrub  and 
rub  her  pale  cheeks  till  they  glowed,  replace  and 
tighten  various  hair-pins  (which  always  become  loose 
in  moments  of  emotion),  and  obliterate  the  traces  of 
her  agitation  Then  she  went  down  stairs,  found  her 
father,  and  persuaded  him  to  take  her  home,  — no 
difficult  matter,  since  he  was  bored  with  the  new 
fangled  stiffness  of  the  entertainment.  On  the  way 
they  spoke  little.  Phineas  was  occupied  with  driving, 
and  only  once  put  a  question  to  his  daughter :  — 


WIDOW  BAKER. 

"  Hope  ye  had  an  interestin'  time,  Susan?  " 

"  Yes,  very  interesting,"  said  she,  and  lapsed  again 
into  silence.  But  her  thoughts  were  busy  enough, 
recalling  painfully  the  strange  behavior  and  incohe 
rent  speech  of  Jotharn,  and  wondering  whether  she 
had  not  done  him  some  injustice.  That  letter  of  his 
to  Xancy  was  not  so  very  loving.  There  was  a  mys 
tery  in  it  ;  and  an  old  friend  should  not  be  discarded 
without  an  opportunity  to  explain  his  conduct.  Per 
haps  he  was  at  this  moment  with  his  mother.  He  was 
an  affectionate  and  dutiful  son,  at  least.  "  Couldn't 
you  drive  a  little  faster,  father?  "  said  Susan. 

But  on  arrival  she  found  that  Mother  Baker  was  in 
bed,  and  that  nobody  had  called.  She  kept  the  secret 
of  Jotham's  return.  Why  should  she  say  any  thing 
to  her  father  about  it  ?  Everybody  would  know  it  in 
the  morning.  But,  when  the  morning  came,  she  was 
thoughtful  enough  to  prepare  the  widow  for  the  joy 
ful  surprise  of  meeting  her  son,  assuring  her  that  he 
had  really  returned,  and  would  soon  make  his  appear 
ance,  but  declining  to  tell  how  she  had  got  the  news, 
except  that  she  had  heard  it  at  the  party. 

When  Jotham  knocked  at  the  door,  it  was  Susan, 
much  to  his  embarrassment,  who  opened  it.  He 
began  an  apology  for  his  intrusion,  which  she  checked 
with  a  gesture.  "Your  mother  is  expecting  you/' 
said  she,  pointing  to  the  door  of  the  room  in  which 
the  widow  was  sitting,  and  withdrew,  to  fidget  in  the 
kitchen  ;  while  Jotham,  forgetting  for  the  moment  all 


144  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

woes  and  embarrassment,  entered  to  clasp  in  arms  of 
unalterable  affection  and  perfect  joy  the  darlingest 
old  mother  that  ever  lived. 

Widow  Baker  was  so  glad  to  get  her  son  back  on 
any  terras,  that  she  needed  little  to  satisfy  her  curiosity 
concerning  his  long  absence  and  silence.  When  he 
alluded  to  letters  he  had  written  her,  she  did  not  tell 
him,  in  this  first  happy  hour,  that  she  had  never  re 
ceived  them.  When  he  mentioned  to  her  his  plan 
about  the  old  place,  which  he  had  already  found  he 
could  buy  back,  and  which  would  be,  after  all,  a 
source  of  profit  to  the  family,  her  face  lit  up  with  a 
proud  smile  such  as  the  late  Colonel  Baker  might 
well  have  returned  to  enjoy.  "  That's  what  your 
father  always  said,"  was  her  comment.  Dear  soul ! 
she  had  put  sympathy,  if  not  faith,  in  every  one  of 
her  husband's  schemes  ;  raid  it  was  to  her  simple 
affection  a  sort  of  vindication  of  his  misunderstood 
and  depreciated  career,  to  have  his  gold-mine  turn 
out  at  least  a  granite-quarry. 

"Well,  my  son,"  said  the  widow  at  last,  "the  dea- 
con'll  be  glad  to  have  you  stop  here  for  a  while,  until 
you  can  set  up  a  house  of  your  own.  lie  told  me 
that  when  he  first  invited  me.  I  wouldn't  have  come 
to  a  house,  you  know,  where  my  boy  would  not  have 
been  welcome."  This  was  the  good  lady's  artful 
approach  to  a  subject  that  lay  near  her  heart. 

"  The  deacon  is  a  true  friend,"  replied  Jotham, 
"  and  I  shall  tell  him  so.  But  I  —  I'd  rather  not  stop 


WIDOW  BAKER.  145 

in  his  house.     Don't  you  think  you  could  visit  some 
where  else,  — say,  at  Squire  Hawkins's?" 

"Why,  what  should  I  do  without  Susan?  "  was  the 
deeply  innocent  reply ;  to  which  Jotham  made  a 
somewhat  testy  rejoinder :  — 

"You'll  have  to  do  without  Susan  sooner  or  later,- 
and  you  might  as  well  begin  !  " 

Now,  by  this  time,  Susan,  having  rattled  about  the 
kitchen  vigorously,  doing  nothing,  for  half  an  hour, 
had  found  it  absolutely  necessary  to  come  to  the 
sitting-room.  She  wanted  a  "holder"  to  protect  her 
fair  fingers  in  lifting  a  kettle  from  the  fire;  and  the 
holder  in  the  kitchen  didn't  suit  her  —  no,  not  at  all. 
But  there  was  one  in  the  sitting-room  that  would  suit 
and  that  one  she  must  have.  So,  with  a  timid  pre 
liminary  knock  on  the  half-open  door,  she  walked  in. 
The  widow  watched  her  keenly. 

"  Susan,"  she  said,  "  our  Jotham  has  come  !  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Susan,  with  a  beating  heart,  and  a 
voice  far  too  unsteady  for  the  leading  soprano  of  the 
Ilucklebury  choir,  "  I've  met  Mr.  Baker  already.  I 
—  I  hope  he's  very  well."  Upon  this  she  went  to 
wards  the  fireplace,  where  the  "  holder  "  hung  on  a 
nail,  and,  before  she  got  there,  forgot  what  she  was 
going  for,  and  so,  coming  to  a  dead  stop,  looked  into 
the  fire  with  preposterous  earnestness  and  a  great  de 
sire  to  cry.  Jotham,  on  his  part,  studied  a  spot  on 
the  floor  till  it  began  to  revolve  before  his  eyes  in  an 
amazing  way,  and  then  said  hastily  that  he  thought 
he  had  better  go  and  attend  to  some  other  matters. 


H6  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

"  Don't  go  on  my  account,"  said  the  young  girl  at 
the  fire ;  at  which  Jotham  stopped  short,  and  the 
situation  was  worse  than  ever.  But  the  widow,  bless 
her!  was  more  than  equal  to  it.  She  divined  the 
state  of  affairs  better  than  if  they  had  told  her  all 
about  it,  though  that's  not  saying  much  ;  for,  if  they 
had  undertaken  to  tell  her,  a  pretty  mess  they  would 
have  made  of  it  with  their  confusions  and  cross  pur 
poses  and  reservations  and  pique  and  embarrassments. 

"  I  want  Jotham  to  visit  with  us  a  few  days,  till  he 
gets  ready  a  place  of  his  own,  —  for  him  and  me," 
said  she ;  "  but  he  thinks  he  had  better  not." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  right,"  remarked  Miss  Peabody  to 
the  fire." 

"  He  wants  me  to  go  and  stay  somewhere  else  with 
him,"  continued  the  widow. 

Susan  turned  half  round,  with  a  sudden  movement, 
and  then  resolutely  back  to  her  former  position,  say 
ing  earnestly,  — 

"  No,  no  !  you  mustn't  leave  us.  Nobody  can  do 
without  you,  dear  Mother  Baker!'* 

It  was  strange  that  she  could  not  even  face  her 
dearest  friend,  wasn't  it?  But  the  fact  is,  she  had 
come  in  a  hurry,  and  her  handkerchief  was  missing, 
as  handkerchiefs  are  so  apt  to  be  at  the  very  minute 
when  they  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold. 

"  If  anybody  needs  me,  then  my  only  son  needs  me 
most,"  said  the  old  lady,  going  over  to  Jotham,  and 
putting  her  thin  hands  on  his  broad  shoulder. 
"  Where  he  had  better  not  stay,  I  will  not  stay." 


WIDOW  BAKER.  147 

"Then  he  must  stay,"  said  the  voice  by  the  fire. 
"  He  needn't  go  on  my  account." 

"  Mother,"  interrupted  the  subject  of  this  dialogue, 
shaking  off  his  wretched  timidity,  and  speaking  in  a 
straightforward,  commanding  way,  that  settled  things 
at  once  in  his  favor  (though  he  was  not  aware  of 
that),  "  don't  trouble  Miss  Peabody  any  further.  She 
has  reason  to  think  I  have  treated  her  with  some 
indignity,  though  she  is  wrong:  I  would  die  first." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  widow  heartily.  "  But  Susan 
don't  believe  any  such  thing.  Why,  she  can't:  it's 
impossible.  —  O  Susan !  shake  hands  with  Jotham, 
and  tell  him  so  yourself." 

Susan  held  out  her  hand  with  averted  face;  but 
the  young  man  was  bent  on  no  half-way  measures. 
"  No,"  he  said  imperatively.  "  Hear  me  out.  She  is 
wrong  in  her  thought  of  me,  though  I  am  to  blame 
for  her  mistake ;  but  she  is  right  in  saying  (as  she 
did  before  you  spoke  of  leaving  here)  that  I  had  bet 
ter  not  stay  in  this  house." 

Miss  Peabody  had  withdrawn  again  her  neglected 
hand,  and,  having  no  better  use  for  it,  was  pressing 
it  against  her  heart,  —  a  most  insipid  and  unprofitable 
use  of  both  hand  and  heart.  Mr.  Jotham  Baker, 
having  the  floor,  went  on,  as  is  the  custom  of  orators, 
addressing  the  chair,  but  meaning  to  be  heard  by  the 
audience  :  — 

"For  I  love  her  —  I  love  her  dearly;  and  I  will 
not  stay  in  her  house,  or  touch  her  hand,  or  look  into 


148  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

her  face  —  because  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  don't  want 
to  be  'old  friends'  again." 

"  You'd  better  stay,"  said  Susan  feebly.  "  Your 
mother  wants  you  to  sta}^." 

The  Widow  Baker  smiled,  as  a  general  might  smile, 
who,  just  as  he  was  about  to  order  a  retreat,  should 
see  through  his  field-glass  the  white  flag  hoisted  by 
the  enemy.  But  Jotham  had  no  field-glass,  and  went 
on  with  his  last  despairing  volley. 

"  No,"  he  said  impatiently,  "  it  is  impossible.  If  — 
if  you  felt  as  I  do,  you  would  understand  me.  But  I 
do  not  deserve  to  be  utterly  despised  ;  and  I  think, 
Miss  Peabody,  that  I  ought  to  explain  to  you  before  I 
go"- 

Susan  shook  her  shoulders.  "I  don't  want  any 
explanation,"  she  said. 

"And  /  do"  said  desperate  Jotham.  "I  claim  it 
as  a  right:  it  is  my  last  chance,  and  I  will  be  heard." 

That  obstinate  young  woman  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears,  and  that  obstinate  young  man  went  right  on 
addressing  the  chair;  and  the  chair,  that  is  to  say, 
Widow  Baker,  positively  laughed  in  his  face.  The 
sublime  was  evidently  sliding  fast — facilis  descensus 
-  into  the  ridiculous. 

Now,  this  scene  would  not  have  lasted  half  as  long 
if  Susan  had  had  a  handkerchief.  When  a  person 
has  been  crying  ever  so  little,  and  is  obliged  by  cir 
cumstances  to  dry  before  the  fire,  without  the  aid  of 
cambric  or  bandanna,  the  conversation  must  be  pro- 


WIDOW  BAKER.  149 

longed,  to  give  that  person  a  reasonable  time.  But 
if  the  person  begins  again — why,  then  all  subter 
fuges  are  in  vain.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Susan, 
whose  fingers  were  not  so  very  tightly  pressed  into 
her  ears,  heard  Jotham  walk  towards  the  door.  The 
blundering,  lucky  fellow  !  Just  as  he  was  about  to 
resign  the  game,  he  gave  checkmate.  For  Susan 
Peabody  turned  like  a  flash,  and  called  him  by  name 
—  no  mistake  about  it,  and  no  " Mr."  —  a  good,  clear, 
unfaltering  "  Jotham !  " 

But  he  was  smitten  with  blindness.  Not  even  the 
sight  of  her,  blushing,  tearful,  radiant,  holding  out 
both  hands  towards  him,  could  make  him  understand. 

"  Then  you  will  hear  my  explanation  ?  "  said  stupid 
Jotham. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  she,  stamping  with  her  little 
foot,  "I  have  heard  enough,  I  won't  have  any  ex 
planations  !  " 

"  But  before  I  go  "  —  pursued  the  incorrigible 
Jotham. 

u  Mr.  —  Jotham  —  Baker,"  said  Susan,  laying  down 
the  proposition  with  the  air  of  a  teacher  whose  pa 
tience  was  exhausted,  and  emphasizing  it  with  a 
didactic  forefinger,  "  your  mother  —  and  I  —  are  — 
never  —  going  —  to  —  let  —  you  —  go  —  away  —  from 
us  —  as  —  long  — as —  you  —  live  :  so,  there  !  " 

Here  the  Widow  Baker,  who  had  so  wisely  inter 
fered,  perceived  with  equal  wisdom  that  her  interfer 
ence  was  no  longer  called  for.  And  her  departure 


150 


CAMP  AND   CABIN. 


from  the  room  cuts  short  my  story  at  this  most 
interesting  point;  for,  although  I  am  very  intimate 
with  all  the  parties,  Susan  and  Jotham  never  would 
repeat  to  me  —  and  I  am  utterly  unable  to  imagine  — 
the  conversation  that  followed. 


SKETCHES  OF  WESTERN  TRAVEL, 


WONDERS   OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE. 


I. 


AN    EXPLORING    PARTY. 

(AST  summer1  two  of  us  found  ourselves,  on 
professional  duty  connected  with  "  the  de 
velopment  of  the  mineral  resources  "  of  our 
country,  in  the  Territory  of  Montana,  to 
wit,  the  capital  thereof,  Virginia  City ;  and  there  we 
did  devise  a  journey  up  the  Madison  Valley  to  the 
Spouting  Geysers,  over  the  mountains  to  the  lake, 
canon,  cataracts,  and  hot-springs  of  the  Yellowstone, 
and  so  on,  as  events  might  determine;  traversing,  in 
short,  that  large  area  of  nearly  four  thousand  square 
miles,  of  which  Congress  has  wisely  made  a  Na 
tional  Park.  Our  party  was  not  a  full-fledged  affair, 
with  wings  of  military  escort,  and  claws  of  tools  and 
instruments  for  detailed  scientific  investigation,  but 
an  assemblage  of  volunteers,  comprising  no  small 
amount  of  original  and  unconventional  character. 


1  The  summer  of  1871. 


153 


154  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

Numerous  eminent  citizens  of  Virginia  City  had 
enthusiastically  declared  their  intention  of  joining 
our  company,  and  we  reasonably  expected  to  invade 
the  mountain  solitudes  with  a  great  array  of  rank 
and  intellect.  But,  when  the  critical  day  arrived, 
there  was  an  amazing  pressure  of  business,  legal  and 
otherwise,  iu  the  usually  somewhat  dull  town,  which 
hindered  every  one  of  our  distinguished  friends  from 
starting.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  suggest  that  a  very 
recent  raid  of  the  Sioux  into  the  Gal  latin  Valley 
had  any  thing  to  do  with  this  unanimous  inability 
to  go  where  glory  waited.  That  could  not  be;  for 
did  not  each  reluctantly  declining  friend  take  pains 
to  add,  "  There'll  be  no  danger,  I  guess,  where  you 
are  going.  You  just  keep  a  good  lookout,  and  you'll 
get  through  all  right,  I  guess.  Got  plenty  of  arms 
and  ammunition,  haven't  you?  " 

Under  these  inspiriting  encouragements  we  pre 
pared  to  set  forth.  There  were  six  of  us  men,  eight 
of  us  horses,  and  one  of  us  mule.  Gilman  Sawtelle, 
the  guide,  will  forgive  me  for  bringing  him  before  the 
public  by  name.  I  can  not  rank  him  with  any  of  the 
typical  pioneers,  from  Leatherstocking  down,  who 
have  been  familiar  in  novels  of  Western  life.  He 
affects  no  singularity  of  dress  or  speech;  indulges 
not  in  long  and  silent  laughter;  prefers  not  an  old 
single-barreled,  small-bore,  muzzle-loading  Kentucky 
rifle  to  the  modern  arms  of  precision ;  does  not  pre 
tend  to  see  in  the  night  as  well  as  in  the  daytime,  or 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     155 

to  follow  a  trail  where  there  isn't  any;  misses  a  shot 
now  and  then,  at  long  range,  like  any  other  honest 
man ;  reads  books  and  newspapers ;  and  does  not  de 
spise  his  kind.  A  stalwart,  blond,  blue-eyed,  jovial 
woodsman  is  he,  wTho  for  years  has  kept  a  solitary 
ranch  on  the  bank  of  Henry's  Lake,  some  sixty  miles 
from  the  settlements.  Half  a  dozen  well-built  log- 
houses  constitute  his  establishment.  There  is  a  com 
fortable  dwelling,  a  stable,  a  work-shop,  store-houses 
for  skins  and  game,  and  an  ice-house.  Mr.  Saw- 
telle's  principal  business  has  been  spearing  trout, 
packing  them  in  ice,  hauling  them  in  wagons  to 
Virginia  City,  and  even  as  far  as  Helena,  and  dis 
posing  of  them  at  handsome  prices  to  the  busy  popu 
lation  who  haven't  time  to  fish  for  themselves.  A 
farm  supplies  him  with  vegetables  and  grain ;  the 
valleys  afford  him  excellent  hay;  and  land  and  water 
all  about  him  swarm  with  game  of  every  kind. 

Mr.  Thrasher  the  photographer  is  another  charac-  t 
ter  of  public  interest,  whom  I  will  not  disguise  under 
a  fictitious  name,  because  the  one  he  wears  by  right 
exactly  suits  him.  He  invests  the  profession  of 
photography  with  all  the  romance  of  adventure. 
What  other  men  will  do  for  self-defense,  or  excite 
ment,  or  a  positive  reward,  he  does  for  a  "negative.'* 
No  mountain  is  too  high  for  him,  if  there's  a  "vie\v" 
from  the  top.  No  perilous  precipice  daunts  him,  if 
it  is  just  the  place  for  his  camera.  If  there  is  a 
picturesque  region  where  nobody  has  been,  thither 


156  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

he  hastens,  with  company  if  company  offers ;  alone 
if  need  be,  he  and  his  pack-mule,  carrying  the  pre 
cious  chemicals  and  glasses.  Sometimes,  after  a 
long  and  arduous  expedition,  that  mule  will  roll 
down  a  steep  mountain-face,  and  smash  every  thing1. 
Then  Thrasher  begins  again,  nothing  daunted.  It  is 
a  sight  to  see  him,  when,  struck  by  the  beauty  of 
some  sudden  vista,  he  halts,  and  rapidly  unpacks, 
erecting  his  tripod,  and  hanging  to  the  bough  of 
some  convenient  tree  his  black-cloth  laboratory.  In 
a  trice  the  plate  is  prepared,  the  view  is  taken : 
Thrasher  buries  his  head,  ostrich-like,  in  the  dark 
chamber,  exposing  recklessly,  as  he  kneels  at  his 
work,  the  dilapidated  rear  of  his  corduroys.  Then 
speedily  comes  from  the  black  tent  a  muffled  shout 
of  triumph,  and  the  artist  emerges  backward  on  all- 
threes,  holding  up  a  dripping  negative  for  general 
admiration.  Or  perhaps  it  doesn't  suit  him,  and  the 
boys  are  told  to  go  on ;  he  will  stay  and  "  wrastle  " 
with  that  view;  and  an  hour  after  camp  is  made, 
when  all  have  subsided  into  the  delights  of  dolce  far 
nientc,  —  supper  being  over,  and  guard  not  begun,  — 
along  comes  Thrasher  with  "that  cussed  mule,"  who 
will  persist  in  trying  to  carry  her  unwieldy  pack  be 
tween  precisely  the  trees  that  stand  too  close  for 
passage,  —  Thrasher,  I  say,  weary,  hungry,  irate,  but 
victorious. 

I  may  mention  here,  that,  after  we  had  been  sev 
eral  weeks  in  the  mountains,  Mr.  Thrasher  became 


WONDEES  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     157 

entirely  unmanageable.  He  had  so  many  views  to 
take  that  there  was  no  hope  of  getting  him  back 
to  civilization  until  his  chemicals  were  used  up  —  and 
he  had  provided  a  desperately  large  stock.  So  on 
the  canon  of  the  Yellowstone  we  left  him,  with  Saw- 
telle ;  while  the  rest  of  us  rode  home  without  him. 
I  have  heard  since  that  lie  got  "  burnt  out"  by  a  for 
est  fire,  losing  every  thing  but  Ids  negatives;  and  that 
after  returning  to  Virginia  City,  and  procuring  a  new 
outfit,  he  posted  back  again,  this  time  alone,  to  "  do 
the  rest  of  that  country,  or  bust." 

O  Thrasher!  Thy  mule,  with  the  sharp-pointed 
legs  of  the  camera-tripod  projecting  from  her  stern, 
was  unpleasant  to  the  next-following  horseman  when 
she  backed  in  a  narrow  defile ;  nor  was  it  altogether 
delightful  to  get  up  prematurely  in  order  to  form 
part  of  one  of  thy  frequent  "sunrise  scenes :"  but 
thou  wert  most  excellent  company  on  the  march  and 
in  camp,  and  thy  energy  and  enthusiasm  were  sub 
lime.  May  I  not  fail  to  fare  with  thee  again,  some 
day,  through  wild  and  rugged  ways,  pursuing  with 
tireless  steps  the  spirit  of  beauty  to  her  remotest 
hiding-place ! 

Another  member  of  the  party  was  Mr.  Hardpan, 
of  the  editorial  staff  of  "The  Weekly  Alloutdoors," 
published  at  Bucksborough,  Montana, — a  fine  speci 
men  of  the  frontier  "local,"  possessing  the  wide 
awake  characteristics  of  the  city  species,  but  superior 
in  point  of  manliness.  Interviewing  people  against 


158  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

their  will,  following  with  intent  nose  the  trails  of 
scandal,  picking  up  scraps  of  information  around 
the  doors  of  public  offices,  and  the  like  occupations, 
tend  to  obliterate  in  the  city  reporter  somewhat  of 
the  gentleman,  and  more  of  the  man.  But  the  habit 
of  traversing  mountains  and  valleys  in  search  of 
news,  interviewing  the  hardy  miners  and  hunters  in 
the  gulches  or  by  the  camp-fire,  "  prospecting  "  en 
route  for  wash-gold  or  quartz  (for  your  Western 
editor  has  always  been  at  some  time  a  miner  him 
self,  and  can  not  pass  black  sand  or  rusty  rock  with 
out  "just  taking  a  look  at  hsr"),  not  disdaining  to 
follow  the  fleet  deer,  and  impale  the  wrigglesorne 
trout,  nor  shirking  the  due  share  of  danger  before 
the  grizzly  or  the  Sioux,  —  this  life,  I  say,  makes 
quite  another  man  of  the  reporter.  Paul  Pry  and 
Ilardpan  have  nothing  in  common :  in  fact,  one 
would  not  have  imagined  that  the  gentleman  from 
"  The  Weekly  Alloutdoors  "  was  an  emissary  of  the 
press  at  all.  If  he  "took  notes,"  it  was  in  secret,  as 
a  gentleman  should.  He  has  since  immortalized  us 
all  in  a  highly  embellished  account  of  the  journey; 
but  he  inflicted  upon  us  no  preliminary  tortures 
during  the  trip,  and  the  picture  he  has  painted  is  as 
delicately  and  truthfully  flattering  as  one  of  Hunt- 
ington's  portraits,  or  Sarony's  photographs.  It  is  a 
comfort  to  "  sit "  to  an  artist  who  will  see  to  it  that 
freckles  are  omitted,  and  that  a  pleasing  expression 
is  secured  at  any  cost.  For  the  rest,  Hardpan  was  a 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     159 

jolly  companion,  who  obtruded  no  "shop-talk,"  and 
endeared  himself  to  all  by  his  extraordinary  skill  in 
the  preparation  of  " dough-gods"  and  "bull-whacker's 
butter," — two  triumphs  of  camp-cw/sme  not  to  be 
compassed  by  any  thing  short  of  genius. 

The  other  three  of  us  decline  to  be  publicly  por 
trayed;  but  we  permit  it  to  be  said,  in  all  modera 
tion,  that  we  possessed  among  us  all  the  beauties 
of  form  and  feature,  all  the  virtues  of  character,  and 
all  the  varieties  of  learning  and  accomplishment, 
that  anybody  ever  found  in  anybody.  What  one 
of  us  lacked  another  was  sure  to  have  —  until  that 
woeful  day  when  none  of  us  possessed  so  much  as  a 
pipeful  of  "Lone  Jack;"  but  this  deficiency  was 
abundantly  remedied  as  soon  as  we  returned  to  the 
settlements,  and  we  now  present  to  the  pen  of  the 
eulogist  our  pristine  perfection. 

But  how  can  we  omit  to  mention  Sawtelle's  dog?  — 
ugliest,  hardiest,  most  enthusiastic  and  affectionate, 
most  ardent  in  the  chase,  most  patient  in  hunger, 
and  insensible  to  fatigue,  of  all  the  canine  race,  —  a 
dog  of  no  distinguished  lineage,  and  no  advantage 
in  early  education,  but  full  of  an  excellent  spirit 
and  a  companionable  soul.  The  enthusiasm  with 
which  that  dog  would  attempt  the  impossible,  — 
chasing  grouse  upon  the  wing,  or  swimming  fiercely 
after  ducks  that  contemptuously  waited  for  him  till 
he  almost  touched  them,  and  then,  just  as  he  raised 
his  yelp  of  anticipated  triumph,  dove  under  him,  and 


160  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

re-appeared  behind  him,  to  his  blank  bewilderment, — 
the  brisk  enthusiasm  with  which  he  would  essay  these 
feats,  stimulated  every  day  by  the  remembrance  of 
past  failures  to  wilder  racing  and  louder  yelping,  was 
a  moral  to  mortals.  Some  day,  I  am  persuaded,  that 
dog  will  catch  a  grouse  upon  the  wing,  or  a  duck  upon 
the  wave.  Nothing  can  be  impossible  forever  to  such 
perseverance.  He  rejoiced  in  several  names,  being 
chiefly  called  Bob,  for  short,  in  allusion  to  his  tail. 

With  the  remainder  of  our  party,  that  is  to  say, 
with  the  horses  and  the  mule,  w7e  began  to  get  ac 
quainted  very  early  in  the  journey.  The  first  day's 
march  was  a  succession  of  packings,  chasings,  shout 
ings,  draggings,  and  buckings,  from  the  time  we  were 
escorted  out  of  Virginia  City  by  the  merchant-princes, 
legal  luminaries,  and  small  boys  of  the  town,  until 
we  made  camp  on  the  other  side  of  the  "divide," 
after  dark,  cold  and  hungry  and  tired,  by  the  rush 
ing  waters  of  the  Madison.  It  took  some  time,  how 
ever,  to  learn  all  the  peculiarities  of  all  the  animals, 
and  to  produce  in  them  the  sure  conviction  that  we 
knew  their  tricks  and  their  manners.  One  ancient 
white  steed,  who  was  used  to  carrying  packs,  infected 
the  rest  with  his  wisdom.  He  taught  them  to  swell 
up  when  they  were  "  sinched,"  so  that  the  girths 
might  slip  afterward  ;  to  lie  down  and  roll  with  their 
packs  on;  to  start  on  wild  prairie  gallops  without 
warning,  and  work  their  burdens  around  their  bel 
lies,  where  they  could  be  conveniently  kicked ;  to 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     161 

"buck,"  when  they  could  thereby  throw  any  body  or 
any  thing  into  a  river;  and  at  night,  when  they  were 
turned  out  for  rest  and  grazing,  to  start  in  solemn 
procession  for  home,  and  travel  a  dozen  miles  before 
daylight.  But  that  sublime  being,  man,  is  more  than 
a  match  for  that  noble  animal,  horse;  and  due  subor 
dination  was  ere  long  established.  Did  time  permit, 
I  would  gladly  sing  the  praises  of  the  "  diamond 
hitch,"  —  that  mystery  of  ropes  and  running-knots, 
which,  once  properly  adjusted  upon  a  well-balanced 
and  well-settled  load,  defies  the  cunning  of  the  equine 
or  asinine  bearer,  and  will  not  even  yield  to  a  pine- 
tree,  tearing  and  scraping  against  it  in  the  forest. 
But  we  have  lingered  too  long  already  over  the  inci 
dentals  of  our  trip  —  though,  in  truth,  they  are  rather 
to  be  reckoned  as  essentials;  for  the  destination  of 
a  journey  like  ours  may  be  \vherever  you  please,  if 
you  are  well  fitted  out  for  the  march  and  the  camp  ; 
but  without  good  company,  good  arms,  and  a  knowl 
edge  of  the  "diamond  hitch,"  one  had  better  not  start 
at  all. 


162  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 


II. 
UP   THE    MADISON. 

As  I  have  hinted,  our  party  was  escorted  out  of 
Virginia  City  by  the  friendly  population,  and  took 
its  -way  over  the  divide  which  separates  that  town 
from  the  valley  of  the  Madison.  And  here,  O  un 
suspecting  reader !  shall  be  sprung  upon  thee  a  trap 
of  instruction.  But  be  not  dismayed,  the  agony  shall 
be  brief.  And,  moreover,  there  is  no  dread  examina 
tion  awaiting  you  beyond,  to  reveal  your  wicked 
neglect  if  you  skip  the  next  paragraph  altogether. 
Geography  is  not  pleasant,  but  grievous;  yet  is  it 
necessary  to  him  who  would  travel,  whether  in  per 
son  or  by  sympathetic  imagination.  Wherefore 
listen  :  — 

The  two  great  river-systems  of  the  Missouri-Mis 
sissippi,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Snake-Columbia, 
on  the  other,  have  their  highest  sources  close  to 
gether,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  where  their  upper 
waters  even  pass  each  other  in  opposite  directions, 
like  the  fingers  of  two  hands,  employed  in  the  fasci 
nating  game  of 

"  Here's  the  church,  and  here's  the  steeple: 
Open  the  door,  and  there's  the  people!  " 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     163 

Persons  who  do  not  know  this  game  will  be  bewil 
dered  by  the  illustration,  just  as  persons  who  enter 
for  the  first  time  the  country  of  which  I  speak  are 
bewildered  when  they  find  one  stream  running  north 
for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  the  next  running  south 
for  the  Pacific  Ocean.  For  this  perplexity,  dear 
reader,  there  are  only  two  remedies :  you  must  either 
learn  the  game,  or  visit  the  region. 

It  is  the  Missouri  system  which  chiefly  concerns  us 
here ;  and  it  must  suffice  to  say  of  it  that  four  large 
rivers  rise  not  far  from  the  north-west  corner  of  Wyo 
ming  Territory,  and  flow  for  some  distance  northward. 
Three  of  them  —  the  Jefferson,  the  Madison,  and  the 
Gallatin  —  unite  at  Gallatiu  City,  Montana,  to  form 
the  Missouri,  which  continues  northward  to  near  the 
British  boundary,  which  it  avoids  by  a  great  bend  to 
the  east,  after  which  it  gradually  assumes  a  south 
east  course  to  the  Mississippi.  The  fourth  river  is 
the  Yellowstone,  which  bends  on  its  own  hook,  so 
to  speak,  before  reaching  the  Missouri,  and  finally 
joins  that  river  on  the  borders  of  Dakota.  In  the 
upper  part  of  their  course,  therefore,  the  valleys  of 
the  Jefferson,  Madison,  Gallatin,  and  Yellowstone, 
are  in  a  general  way,  parallel,  and  their  order  from 
west  to  east  is  indicated  by  the  order  in  which  I 
have  named  them.  The  Gallatin,  being  the  shortest, 
rises  farther  north  than  the  others,  and  the  head 
waters  of  the  Madison  are  separated  from  the  Yel 
lowstone  Lake,  which  may  be  called  the  head  of  the 


164  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

Yellowstone,  by  mountain-ranges  only.  To  traverse, 
mainly  by  valley  routes,  the  geysers  of  the  Upper 
Madison  (or  Fire  Hole  River),  the  Yellowstone  Lake, 
cafion  and  cataracts,  and  the  hot-springs  that  dot  the 
region  between  these  rivers,  one  may  either  ascend 
the  Yellowstone,  cross  the  mountains  to  the  Madison, 
and  descend  the  Madison,  or  vice  versa.  The  first  is 
what  the  parties  of  Washburne  and  Hay  den  did. 
The  second  is  what  our  party  did  —  only  we  left  the 
Yellowstone  after  following  it  down  to  the  great 
canon,  and  returned  by  a  different  trail  across  the 
mountains  to  the  Madison  Valley,  by  which  we  re 
turned  to  the  settlements.  Here  endeth  the  first 
lesson  in  geography. 

Sawtelle  and  his  dog  did  not  share  in  the  trium 
phal  departure  from  Virginia  City,  but  awaited  us 
at  the  camp  on  the  Madison,  nine  miles  from  town. 
Next  morning,  being  the  10th  of  August,  we  began 
our  journey  in  earnest,  and  traveled  eighteen  miles 
up  the  valley,  —  a  fair  day's  work  for  the  pack-ani 
mals,  though  on  our  way  home  we  "pushed  things" 
over  the  same  ground  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles 
daily.  The  valley  of  the  Madison  at  this  point  is 
an  inspiring  scene.  The  river  is  accompanied  on 
the  east  by  the  splendid  chain  of  the  Madison  Moun 
tains,  with  their  bold  outlines,  rugged  brown-and- 
red  rock-surfaces,  snow-touched  crests,  and  occasional 
tracery  of  piney  canons.  Opposite  these  is  a  succes 
sion  of  inferior  but  picturesque  ridges,  and  between 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     165 

is  the  broad,  fair,  grassy  valley,  —  a  very  paradise  for 
stock-raisers.  To  the  north,  it  draws  together  into 
the  dark  and  precipitous  lower  canon  of  the  Madison. 
Southward  (i.e.,  up  the  valley),  the  benched  or  ter 
raced  structure  of  the  terrain  becomes  more  and  more 
distinct,  until  at  last  three  or  four  gigantic  terraces, 
rising  one  above  another  from  the  stream  to  the 
mountains,  stretch  away  for  many  miles  on  cither 
side  along  the  valley.  What  a  natural  preparation 
for  a  railroad !  The  engineer  need  only  choose  his 
level,  and  then  "go  it"  on  a  gravel  foundation  hun 
dreds  of  feet  deep.  There  is  more  or  less  volcanic 
•rock  all  along  the  ranges;  but  as  we  ascend  the  river 
it  becomes  predominant,  and  forms  at  length  high 
lava-walls,  like  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson.  Upon 
these  lavas  and  the  gravel  terraces,  the  vegetation  is 
scanty,  though  the  clear  mountain-streams  which  cut 
their  way  through  deep  side-canons  at  intervals  of 
about  ten  miles  are  delightfully  shadowed  with  pines 
and  cottonwoods  and  fringed  with  verdure.  The 
general  aspect  of  the  scenery,  after  the  meadows  are 
left  behind,  is  desolate  and  grand. 

Impossible  to  describe  is  the  quiet  beauty  of  an 
evening  or  noon-day  camp  by  a  rushing  stream  in 
these  sublime  solitudes,  —  the  blazing  fire,  the  lux 
urious  repose  of  man  and  beast,  the  fragrant  pipe, 
well  chosen  by  some  early  poet  of  coppery  hue  as  par 
excellence  the  emblem  of  peace !  Grouse  strut  and 
flutter  in  the  bushes ;  eagles  scream  and  wheel  in 


166  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

the  sky  ;  processions  of  ducks  make  straight,  swift 
course  down  the  river ;  the  service-berry  thickets  and 
the  freshly-turned  stones  and  stumps  betray  the  re 
cent  presence  of  the  fruit  and  insect  loving  bear  (no 
bug-bear  to  us  and  our  repeating  breech-loaders) ; 
there  are  upon  the  trail  delicate  footprints  of  ante 
lope  and  deer,  and  heavy  hoof-marks  of  the  elk. 
From  our  green,  cool  covert  we  look  lazily  out  upon 
the  valley,  hot  with  the  meridian  glow,  or  vast  and 
hazy  in  the  twilight,  or  mystical  and  solemn  beneath 
the  moon. 

On  the  fourth  day  we  reached  the  middle  canon  of 
the  Madison,  where  the  river  breaks  through  the* 
main  chain  of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  and,  to  avoid 
the  difficulty  of  the  passage,  we  turned  out  of  the 
valley,  crossed  the  low  divide  known  as  the  Reynolds 
Pass,  and  saw  before  us  the  gleaming  waters  of 
Henry's  Lake.  Here  we  found  hospitable  shelter  in 
Sawtelle's  ranch,  and  excellent  amusement  for  a  day 
in  hunting  and  fishing  upon  his  preserves.  What 
with  innumerable  grouse  on  the  hillsides,  ducks  and 
geese  in  the  sedgy  sloughs,  snowy  swans  and  pelicans 
upon  the  lake,  and  four-footed  game  of  every  variety 
in  forest  and  field,  the  sportsman's  taste  can  not  fail 
to  be  gratified.  If  he  is  an  adventurous  Englishman, 
and  must  have  danger,  let  him  hunt  skunks :  there 
are  plenty  of  them,  and  they  strike  fear  into  the 
stoutest  heart. 

Who   was    Henry?    and   how  came   he   to   have   a 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     1C7 

lake?  Henry  was  a  prominent  fur-trading  capitalist 
of  early  days,  I  believe,  and  had  this  geographical 
greatness  thrust  upon  him.  Henry's  Lake  is  the 
source  of  the  Henry,  or  north  fork  of  the  Snake.  It 
is  surrounded  by  lofty  mountains,  but  connected 
with  the  outer  world  by  four  remarkably  low  passes, 
all  practicable,  and  two  of  them  (Snake  River  and 
the  Reynolds  Pass)  positively  inviting,  for  a  railroad. 
Southward,  the  north  fork  runs  with  steady  grade 
out  to  the  great  plains  of  Idaho.  North-west,  a  pass 
over  a  low  divide  leads  to  Red  Rock  Lake,  the  head 
of  a  branch  of  the  Beaverhead  and  the  Jefferson. 
Northward,  the  Reynolds  Pass  communicates  with 
the  terraced  valley  of  the  Madison  ;  and  eastward, 
the  Henry  Pass  gives  easy  entrance  to  the  great 
Madison  basin,  above  the  middle  canon.  Here  end- 
eth  the  second  lesson  in  geography, 

Our  route  lay  through  the  latter  opening;  and  a 
charming  day's  ride  it  was,  from  the  placid  lake, 
through  the  glens  and  glades  of  the  pass,  beneath 
the  shining  summits,  along  the  willowy  banks  of 
the  streams,  by  the  great  beaver-dams,  and  finally 
across  the  wide  basin,  densely  covered  with  slender 
pines,  until  we  camped  again  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  we  had  left  two  or  three  days  before. 

At  this  camp  we  got  a  taste  of  the  mosquitoes  and 
black  flies,  which  taught  us  that  the  country  did  not 
swarm  with  game  exclusively  for  us.  After  a  fellow 
has  been  slaughtering  the  inhabitants  of  the  wilder- 


168  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

ness  for  a  week,  it  is,  perhaps,  a  wholesome  lesson 
for  him  to  be  slaughtered  in  turn.  The  helplessness 
of  man  against  insects  is  one  of  Nature's  sarcastic 

o 

comments  upon  intellect.  Camels  we  can  manage, 
swallow  even,  if  necessary ;  but  gnats  are  too  many 
for  us.  Our  unfortunate  animals  couldn't  eat,  but 
wound  themselves  up  in  their  lariats,  in  frantic  at 
tempts  to  get  away  from  the  multitudinous  foe.  Old 
Whitey  showed  his  sagacity  by  quietly  usurping  the 
smoky  side  of  the  camp-fire,  whence  he  was  not  to 
be  enticed  away.  An  hour  after  sunset,  however,  the 
cold  stiffened  all  winged  nuisances,  —  an  August  night 
in  these  latitudes  means  frost,  —  and,  before  they 
thawed  out  in  the  morning,  we  had  sounded  our 
" packs,  saddles,  and  away!" 


III. 

MARCH    AND    CAMP. 

THE  great  Madison  basin  is  perhaps  thirty  miles 
wide  by  fifty  long.  The  river  enters  it  on  the  south 
by  a  narrow  canon,  which  now  lay  before  us,  and 
leaves  it  on  the  north  by  the  canon  we  had  avoided 
in  our  detour  by  Henry's  Lake.  The  southern  canon, 
upon  which  we  entered  after  crossing  the  basin,  is 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     169 

nine  or  ten  miles  long,  and  extremely  picturesque. 
Basaltic  cliffs  a  thousand  feet  in  height  overhang  the 
passage,  at  the  bottom  of  which  there  is  room  for 
the  rushing  river,  with  grassy  openings  and  groves  of 
pine  on  either  side.  The  forest  and  the  wave  alike 
teem  with  legged  and  winged  game.  Fish  there  are 
none  to  speak  of,  probably  on  account  of  the  hot  and 
mineral  springs  above,  the  effect  of  which  is  percep 
tible  in  the  moderate  (though  not  tepid)  temperature 
of  the  water,  the  dense  mists  which  arise  from  it  in 
early  morning,  and  the  presence  of  certain  aquatic 
plants  along  the  bottom,  which  we  (perhaps  mis 
takenly)  attributed  to  the  warm  springs  above.  The 
Lower  Madison  abounds  in  fish,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  prevent  them  from  ascending  to  this  point,  except 
the  possible  effect  of  the  thermal  waters. 

We  named  no  end  of  grand  pinnacles  and  preci 
pices  in  this  beautiful  canon  ;  but  I  fear  oar  names 
will  not  stick.  Doubtless  Hayden  or  somebody  came 
along  afterward,  with  a  dictionary  and  a  reporter, 
and  dubbed  them  all  over  again;  and  ere  long  the 
Plantation  Bitters  man,  with  his  pot  and  brush,  will 
have  obliterated  distinctions  utterly,  and  labeled  all 
the  prominent  points  alike.  It  is  with  a  sad  presen 
timent,  therefore,  that  I  recall  the  glories  of  Cathe 
dral  Rock,  where  high  in  the  air  the  basaltic  columns 
strangely  curve  and  meet  to  form  in  the  face  of  the 
cliff  the  outline  of  a  stately  Gothic  arch  ;  or  Pul 
pit  Rock,  a  bold  elevated  rostrum  aftar  the  fashion 


170  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

which  Mr  Beecher  detests ;  or  Thrasher's  Hole,  a  gap 
in  the  western  wall,  through  which  was  seen  a  fasci 
nating  amphitheater  of  wooded  hills,  arid  which  got 
its  name  from  the  difficulty  with  which  Thrasher, 
his  mule,  and  his  camera,  were  restrained  from  "go 
ing  for  it,"  to  the  infinite  delay  of  the  expedition  ;  or 
Family  Buttes,  a  magnificent  series  of  jutting  peaks 
and  buttresses,  terminating  the  canon,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  which  we  made  camp  after  the  passage. 

Our  journey  had  not  been  altogether  without  stir 
ring  adventures,  such  as  the  christening  of  Duck 
Creek  and  the  interview  of  Hardpan  with  a  bear. 

The  way  to  christen  a  creek  is  to  immerse  some 
thing  in  it;  and  the  article  immersed,  in  this  case, 
was  a  member  of  the  party,  who  desires  me  to  sup 
press  his  name.  We  were  trotting  along  the  river- 
bottom,  when  an  inquisitive  coyote,  or  prairie-wolf, 
poked  his  head  over  the  terrace  above  us.  A  rifle 
shot  checked  his  curiosity  without  really  frightening 
him  much,  and  he  kept  pace  with  us  upon  his  upper 
level  in  that  graceful  and  leisurely  way  which  char 
acterizes  his  tribe, — the  loafers  of  the  wilderness. 
Sawtelle  was  suitably  indifferent,  as  an  old  hunter 
should  be,  knowing  well  the  small  pecuniary  value 
of  a  coyote-skin.  But  Sawtelle's  dog  raced  after  the 
trivial  prey  like  mad;  aud  two  or  three  of  us,  realiz 
ing  that  any  thing  is  game  which  gives  you  a  good 
chase,  sprang  up  the  terrace  in  eager  pursuit,  lie- 
suit:  Mr.  Coyote  surveying  us  with  calm  wonder,  out 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     171 

of  rifle-range,  and  with  the  whole  continent  for  his 
line  of  retreat;  a  brace  of  panting  sportsmen,  look 
ing  and  feeling  ridiculous ;  and,  worst  of  all,  Saw- 
telle's  dog  yelping  away,  with  all  the  breath  left  in 
his  body,  after  a  dozen  antelope  that  sailed  away  up 
the  highland,  alarmed  by  our  too  sudden  emergence 
from  below.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  an 
antelope-hunt  by  another  relay  of  the  party,  and  an 
ignominious  return  of  the  defeated  ones  to  lead  and 
drive  the  pack  animals. 

The  gentleman  to  whom  I  have  dimly  alluded 
happened  to  have  the  task  of  leading  an  ambitious 
bay  horse,  to  whose  noble  but  somewhat  broken- 
winded  spirit  the  pack  was  an  unaccustomed  insult. 
As  we  pushed  along  the  valley  we  came  to  a  narrow, 
lively  stream,  across  which  most  of  us  passed  with 
out  difficulty.  The  docile  steed  which  this  gentle 
man  rode  waded  peacefully  through  the  flood,  and 
the  vicious  beast  he  was  leading  ''bucked  "  suddenly 
on  the  hither  shore.  He  would  not  let  go  the  lead 
ing  rope,  since  that  involved  a  long  gallop  after  a 
runaway ;  and,  firmly  holding  on,  he  exhorted  the 
recusant  in  an  inspiring  tone  to  "  git  up  and  git !  " 
Unfortunately  exhortations  are  most  heeded  where 
not  needed ;  the  good  horse  got  up  and  got,  and  the 
naughty  horse  sat  down.  Between  the  two,  I  found 
myself  —  I  mean  the  anonymous  gentleman  found 
himself  —  suddenly  disporting  in  the  cool,  cool  wave. 
Blessings  on  those  big  Spanish  stirrups  out  of  which 


172  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

one  slips  so  easily  !  So  we  christened  it  Duck  Creek, 
and  went  our  dripping-  way.  Thank  fortune,  those 
fellows  who  went  after  antelope  didn't  get  any  that 
time  !  There  is  a  damp  kind  of  misery  which  can 
not  bear  to  look  upon  success;  and  drying  one's  self 
at  a  gallop  in  a  biting  wind  makes  the  temper  as 
creaky  as  the  joints. 

The  hero  of  Duck  Creek  was  likewise  he  who 
climbed  the  dead  cottonwood  after  a  wounded  eagle 
in  its  nest.  Those  who  remained  to  scoff,  under  the 
tree,  say  it  was  beautiful  to  see  him,  embracing  with 
legs  and  arms  the  wind-swayed  trunk,  proceed,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  measuring-worm,  while  the  bottoms 
of  his  pantaloons,  catching  the  contagious  upward 
tendenc}^  traveled  kneeward  along  his  noble  limbs 
faster  than  he  skyward  on  the  cottonwood.  Four 
times  that  heroic  being  ascended  in  vain ;  four  times 
he  descended,  with  rapid  friction,  bringing  much 
rotten  and  cotton  wood :  but  the  fifth  time  he  car 
ried  up  in  his  indomitable  clinched  teeth  the  end  of 
a  lariat,  which  he  fastened  around  the  tree,  and 
then,  descending  in  triumph,  planted  himself  on  a 
neighboring  knoll,  victoriously  tetered  out,  and  cap 
tured  the  shot  eagle  and  two  eaglets. 

It  was  down  at  the  camp  on  Bear  Creek  that 
Hardpan  interviewed  the  bear.  lie  was  not  hunting 
bear  just  at  that  time,  but  eating  berries  with  both 
hands  and  all  his  might  and  mouth.  A  rustling  in 
the  bushes  indicated  the  approach  of  a  bear.  lie 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     173 

awaited  the  encounter  -with  stern  courage,  resolved 
to  stab  the  bear  with  his  jack-knife  at  the  moment 
of  the  fatal  hug;  for,  in  changing  his  position  to 
get  a  better  view  of  the  foe,  he  had  accidentally  left 
behind  his  hat  and  his  gun.  It  was  a  very  large 
bear,  to  judge  by  the  rustling  in  the  bushes.  In 
fact,  continuing  to  judge,  with  that  rapidity  which 
brave  men  show  in  the  face  of  danger,  he  judged 
that  there  were  several  of  them,  all  large.  Unfor 
tunately,  stepping  across  to  a  point  about  half  a 
mile  farther  down  the  creek,  to  get  a  still  better 
view,  he  lost  so  much  time  (a  full  minute  and  a 
half), -that  the  bears  escaped.  In  a  solemn  proces 
sion  to  the  berry  ing-ground,  we  saw  the  very  bushes 
that  had  rustled,  and  recovered  the  hat  and  rifle. 

Our  practice  at  night  wras  to  pour  water  on  the 
fire  after  supper,  and  picket  the  animals  close  around 
us  where  we  lay  on  the  ground.  After  reaching  the 
Upper  Madison,  we  took  turns  in  standing  guard,  to 
watch  against  possible  stealing  or  stampeding  of  the 
stock,  and  also,  from  time  to  time,  to  see  to  it  that 
the  picket-ropes  were  clear.  When  you  want  to 
pasture  one  hors3  for  one  night  on  an  ample  lawn, 
the  business  is  easy  enough.  You  drive  your  picket- 
pin  deep  enough  to  hold,  and  leave  enough  of  it 
above  ground  to  permit  the  firm  fastening  of  the 
rope,  but  not  to  permit  the  winding  up  of  the  rope 
on  the  pin  by  possible  circular  promenades  on  the 
horse's  part ;  after  which,  you  bid  the  horse,  and  all 


174  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

care  on  his  behalf,  good-night.  Unless  he  is  a  very 
raw  recruit  at  picket-duty,  he  will  move  about  with 
perfect  freedom  over  the  whole  circle  of  which  the 
rope  is  the  radius ;  and  you  will  hear  him  nibble  and 
crunch  the  squeaking  grass  at  all  hours  of  the  night. 
But,  when  you  apprehend  Indians,  you  can't  afford  to 
hunt  up  a  smooth  lawn  for  each  horse.  As  the  higher 
mountains  are  entered,  the  grass  grows  scanty,  and 
it  is  necessary  to  make  the  best  of  such  patches  as 
occur.  So  the  animals  get  picketed  where  bushes 
interfere  with  tho  free  circulation  of  the  ropes,  or  so 
near  together  that  they  can  (and  accordingly  do)  get 
up  mutual  entanglements.  Every  such  performance 
shortens  the  radius,  and  the  realm  of  food.  An  ex 
perienced  picketer  generally  makes  one  or  two  at 
tempts  to  disentangle  himself,  by  traveling  around 
in  the  direction  that  first  occurs  to  him.  If  this  hap 
pens  to  bo  the  right  one,  he  may  work  out  again  to 
the  full  area  of  his  destined  supper :  otherwise  he 
winds  himself  up,  and  then  (unlike  a  clock)  stops 
going.  It  ir,  the  duty  of  the  guard  to  go  out,  unwind 
him,  and  start  him  again,  lest,  standing  in  patient  dis 
gust  all  night,  he  be  found  in  the  morning  empty  of 
grass  and  of  spirit  for  the  day's  work.  It  is  solemnly 
amusing  to  march  in  a  moony  midnight  hither  and 
thither,  followed  by  a  silent  steed,  through  all  the 
intricacies  of  the  knot  he  has  tied,  with  the  aid  of 
stumps,  bushes,  his  own  legs,  and  his  neighbor's  rope. 
Fancy  yourself  unraveling  a  bad  case  of  shoestring, 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     175 

and  obliged  to  pull  a  horse  through  every  loop  at  the 
end  of  the  string.  The  "Lancers"  is  nothing  to  it. 
For  a  real  mazy  dance,  to  puzzle  the  floor-committee, 
give  me  the  nine-horse  picket-cotillion.  % 

At  daylight  the  animals  are  let  loose,  and  stray 
about,  trailing  their  long  ropes,  in  search  of  un tram 
pled  grass  for  breakfast.  It  is  easy  to  catch  them  by 
means  of  the  ropes,  though  now  and  then  an  experi 
enced  old  fellow  has  learned  the  exact  length  of  his 
lariat,  and  will  not  let  you  get  near  enough  to  clutch 
the  end  of  it. 

This  keeping  guard  at  night  without  the  compan 
ionship  of  the  camp-fire  is  a  chilly  and  dispiriting 
affair.  The  first  watch  is  not  very  lonely.  There  is 
generally  some  wakeful  comrade  who  sits  up  in  his 
bed  to  talk  ;  or  perhaps  the  whole  party  linger  around 
the  flameless  embers,  exchanging  stories  of  adventure. 
But  he  who  "goes  on  "  from  midnight  till  dawn,  sur 
rounded  only  by  mummies  rolled  in  blankets  on  the 
ground,  is  thrown  upon  his  thoughts  for  company. 
The  night-noises  are  mysterious  and  amazingly  vari 
ous,  particularly  if  the  camp  is  surrounded  by  woods. 
There  are  deer  and  elk  going  down  to  the  water  to 
drink ;  there  are  unnatural  birds  that  whistle  and 
answer,  for  all  the  world,  like  ambuscading  savages; 
there  are  crackling  twigs ;  the  picket-ropes  crawl 
through  the  grass  with  a  dreadful  sound;  the  grass 
itself  squeaks  in  an  unearthly  way  when  it  is  pulled 
by  the  horses'  mouths.  The  steady  crunching  of  their 


176  CAMP  AND   CAHIN. 

grinders  is  a  re-assuring,  because  familiar  sound  ;  but 
ever  and  anon  it  stops  suddenly,  all  the  horses  seem 
ing  to  stand  motionless, .and  to  listen.  Their  ears  are. 
.quicker  than  yours:  they  hear  something  moving  in 
the  forest,  —  doubtless  the  wily  Sioux.  You  glide 
from  tree  to  tree,  revolver  in  hand,  until  you  get  near 
enough  to  see  that  they  are  all  asleep.  Old  Bony  is 
dreaming  unpleasantly  besides :  it  is  an  uncanny 
thing,  — a  horse  with  the  nightmare.  You  make  the 
rounds.  They  all  wake  and  go  to  eating  again :  so 
you  know  they  were  not  scared  —  except  the  blooded 
bay,  who  mistakes  you  for  an  Indian,  and  snorts  and 
cavorts  furiously. 

I  remember  well  such  a  night,  near  the  banks  of 
the  Yellowstone  Lake,  when  we  were  doubly  suspi 
cious,  because  we  had  heard  a  rifle-shot  close  by  our 
camp,  not  fired  by  any  member  of  our  party.  I  was 
on  guard  at  about  one  A.M.,  and  keenly  alive  to  all 
the  blood-curdling  sensations  I  have  mentioned,  when 
suddenly  the  trees  above  and  the  ground  beneath 
were  shaken  by  a  brief  but  unmistakable  earthquake. 
The  shock  was  in  the  nature  of  a  horizontal  vibra 
tion  ;  and  the  emotion  produced  by  the  experience  at 
such  an  hour,  in  the  solemn  woods,  wras  a  unique  com 
bination  of  awe  and  nausea.  I  was  not  sorry  that 
one  or  two  of  the  party  were  waked  by  it :  under  the 
circumstances,  I  wras  grateful  for  a  little  conversa 
tion. 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     177 

IV. 
HOT- SPRINGS    AND    GEYSERS. 

BY  our  camp  under  Family  Buttes,  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  third  great  Madison  canon,  the  river 
"  forks;  "  a  considerable  stream,  called  the  East  Fork 
of  the  Madison,  coming  in  at  this  point.  We  as 
cended  this  stream  two  or  three  miles,  attracted  by 
the  appearance  of  a  stream  in  the  distance,  which  we 
found  to  proceed  from  a  group  of  large  hot-springs. 
These  we  studied  with  great  zeal,  and  named  with 
much  ingenuity.  Unfortunately,  the  greater  wonders 
subsequently  observed  have  driven  these  out  of  my 
memory;  and  one  of  my  note-books,  in  which  the 
whole  thing  is  carefully  recorded,  with  a  view  to  im 
mortality,  is,  at  the  moment  of  the  present  writing,  in 
the  pocket  of  my  other  coat ;  and  I  fear  that  coat  has 
been  surreptitiously  sold  by  my  wife,  for  pin-money, 
to  a  gentleman  from  Jerusalem  who  does  business  in 
our  street  ;  and  at  any  rate  I  don't  want  the  thing, 
and  wouldn't  use  it  if  I  had  it.  It  is  my  impression 
that  we  called  one  spring  the  Caldron,  another  the 
Kettle,  a  third  the  Safety- Valve,  a  fourth  the  Reser 
voir,  and  a  fifth  the  Devil's  something  or  other.  Ne 
cessity  is  generally  the  mother  of  profanity  in  the 
nomenclature  of  hot-springs.  But  I  remember  the 


178  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

Bath-Tub,  a  deep  crystal  Lauy,  on  the  brim  of  which 
we  sat,  and  parboiled  our  feet  in  the  steaming  tide, 
until,  the  action  of  the  water  having  in  some  strange 
way  thinned  the  aggregate  cuticle,  and  increased  the 
sensitiveness  of  the  membrane  left,  the  fear  of  blis 
ters  overcame  the  love  of  romance. 

Probably  none  of  these  springs  are  active  geysers, 
though  one  or  two  of  the  group  may  be  so,  and  some 
of  them  boil  with  great  vehemence.  The  Caldron,  in 
particular,  lifts  a  pyramid  of  ebullition,  several  feet 
in  diameter,  to  the  height,  occasionally,  of  two  feet. 
The  most  interesting  feature  of  the  group  is  the  prc;- 
cipitation  of  iron  in  the  quieter  parts  of  their  reser 
voirs.  We  could  see,  for  instance,  in  the  Bath-Tub, 
bubbles  of  steam  ascending  from  many  small  vents 
at  the  bottom,  indicating  the  points  where  the  heated 
water  from  beneath  came  up.  As  the  hot  stream 
escaped  from  subterraneous  pressure,  and  came  in 
contact  with  the  cooler  water  above,  it  apparently 
precipitated  a  portion  of  its  iron  (doubtless  held  in 
solution  under  pressure  as  bicarbonate);  and  this  pre 
cipitation  took  place  around  the  jet  of  hot  water,  so  as 
to  form  a  tube,  from  the  upper  end  of  which  the  hot 
ter  current  continued  to  escape.  The  process  goes  on, 
of  course,  very  slowly;  and  the  tubes  do  not  harden, 
but  are  flexible  and  slimy.  In  the  largest  reservoir 
they  have  accumulated  great  size,  and  lie  along  the 
bottom  wherever  the  hottest  currents  have  flowed. 
They  look  like  reddish-brown  slime-covered  logs;  but 


WONDEES   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     179 

a  little  scientific  investigation  with  a  long  pole  dissi 
pates  at  once  the  log  and  the  illusion. 

Returning  to  the  main  stream,  —  or  rather  the  Fire- 
Ilole  River,  since  this  is  the  name  given  to  the  west 
ern  branch,  from  this  point  up,  —  we  ascended  its 
course  southward.  For  a  dozen  miles  it  traverses  a 
wild  and  narrow  canon,  breaking  through  the  moun 
tain-range  which  forms  one  wall  of  the  Madison  canon 
described  in  the  last  chapter.  Our  course  lay  up  and 
down,  and  every  whither ;  sometimes  in  the  stream 
itself,  when  the  steep  precipices  gave  no  footing ; 
sometimes  along  a  narrow  grassy  margin  beneath 
the  cliffs  ;  sometimes  straight  up  a  fearful  "  climb  ;  " 
sometimes  straight  down  an  awful  slide  ;  through 
the  thick  forests,  over  or  around  the  fallen  timber; 
Thrasher's  mule  playing  fantastic  tricks,  with  only  a 
hand's-breadth  between  her  and  everlasting  smash, 
with  the  ruin  of  American  art  as  a  consequence  ;  the 
other  animals  occasionally  infected  with  the  desire  of 
trying  impossible  passages,  or  of  unloading  them 
selves  at  any  expense  :  but  cool  heads,  and  good  tem 
per,  and  the  diamond  hitch,  were  finally  triumphant 
over  all.  It  was  a  glorious,  though  a  fatiguing,  dozen 
miles.  Several  fine  falls  and  rapids  were  passed  ;  and 
frequently  we  left  the  trail,  to  steal  out  upon  some 
projecting  point,  and  gaze  into  the  deep  gorge,  and 
the  whirling,  roaring,  iridescent  flood.  The  scenery 
of  this  region  is  never  going  to  get  justice  from  the 
critics.  Everybody  will  rave  about  the  geysers  and 


180  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

the  Yellowstone,  and  these  lovely  glades  and  wild 
ravines  will  be  set  down  as  ordinary  in  comparison. 
Nor  can  I  afford  to  dally  any  longer  by  the  way  in 
this  sentimental  fashion,  I  must  give  up  the  itine 
rary  style,  and  plunge  at  once,  so  to  speak,  into  the 
hot-springs  and  geysers.  And,  before  we  go  a  step 
farther,  I  mean  to  get  rid  of  a  heavy  weight  of  sci 
ence  which  has  burdened  my  soul  long  enough.  You 
shall  not  see  a  single  geyser  till  you  have  heard  the 
geyser  theory. 

The  word  "geyser"  is  an  Icelandic  term,  meaning 
to  break  forth :  consequently,  nothing  is  truly  a  gey 
ser  which  is  not  truly  a  "buster."'  As  Hardpan  says, 
after  seeing  the  genuine  article  in  the  Fire-Hole 
basin,  "  Those  small  sizzlers  they  call  geysers  in 
California  might  just  as  well  dry  up  or  simmer 
down:  they  can't  run  a  two-for-a-bit  side-show  along 
of  this !  " 

The  true  geyser,  then,  is  characterized  by  a  pecul 
iar  intermittent  activity.  It  discharges  periodically, 
with  almost  explosive  force,  a  column  of  hot  water 
and  steam  into  the  air;  and,  after  the  eruption  is 
over,  it  remains  quiet  for  a  considerable  time.  Now, 
ask  me  four  questions;  to  wit:  Where  does  the  water 
come  from?  What  makes  it  hot?  Why  does  it 
shoot  into  the  air  ?  Why  does  it  stop  shooting  ?  — 
and  don't  bother  me  with  cross-questionings;  for  this 
is  a  subject  that  will  bear  more  explanation  than  dis 
cussion. 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     181 

The  water  comes,  no  doubt,  from  the  same  source 
that  supplies  all  ordinary  springs  ;  namely,  the  clouds. 
This  is  proved  by  the  location  of  the  geysers  and  hot- 
springs  at  the  foot  of  mountains,  &c.,  where  the  per 
colating  waters  would  naturally  find  an  outlet.  How 
deeply  they  have  penetrated,  however,  before  they  ap 
pear  in  their  heated  condition,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
The  fact  that  the  surface  all  around  is  cold,  except 
when  actually  wet  with  the  hot  water,  or  permeated 
with  hot  gases,  seems  to  indicate  a  deep  origin  of  the 
heat.  It  is  probable,  however,  that  only  a  part,  if 
any,  of  the  percolating  springs  actually  penetrate  so 
far.  At  comparatively  shallow  depths  they  are  prob 
ably  met  by  ascending  vapors  from  below,  at  intense 
temperatures,  and  thus  heated  to  a  mean  degree. 

According  to  some  authors,  the  source  of  all  this 
heat,  like  that  of  volcanoes  and  earthquakes,  is  cos- 
mical;  that  is  to  say,  the  store  of  heat  still  remain 
ing  from  the  early  incandescence  of  the  earth,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  fiery  fluid  interior  of  the  globe.  Ac 
cording  to  others,  it  is  chemical,  or  the  result  of  solu 
tions  and  decompositions  in  underground  deposits. 
That  the  latter  cause  is  sufficient  to  account  for  vast 
degrees  of  heat,  there  is  no  doubt;  though  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  volcanic  phenomena  are  due,  in 
part  at  least,  to  wider  causes,  and  that  the  solf ataras, 
hot-springs,  and  geysers  belong  in  the  same  class. 
My  own  observations  incline  me  to  believe  that  both 
the  heat  and  the  decomposition  of  subterranean  rocks 


182  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

contribute  to  the  temperature  of  thermal  springs. 
In  cases  where  waters  contain  much  iron,  sulphuric 
acid,  sulphurated  hydrogen,  or  alkalies,  a  considera 
ble  decomposition  of  the  rocks  may  be  plausibly  in 
ferred.  When,  however,  as  in  most  of  the  geysers 
of  the  Madison,  the  water  contains  little  mineral  mat 
ter,  and  that  mostly  silica,  it  is  difficult  to  give  an 
adequate  chemical  cause  of  the  heat,  without  assum 
ing  boldly  that  the  results  of  decomposition  have 
been  precipitated  on  their  way  up  to  the  surface. 

The  peculiar  discharge  of  the  geysers,  and  their 
still  more  remarkable  intermittency,  is  the  result  of 
the  geyser  tube  and  its  connection.  A  thermal  spring, 
particularly  a  silicious  one,  tends  to  form  for  itself  a 
mound  by  the  evaporation  of  its  continual  overflow; 
and  through  the  center  of  this  mound  runs,  more  or 
less  vertical  and  regular,  the  channel  or  tube  of  the 
spring,  branching  oft'  at  the  bottom  into  the  duct  or 
ducts  through  which  the  water  is  supplied.  It  has 
been  supposed  that  the  intermittent  action  of  the 
geysers  was  due  to  subterranean  reservoirs  in  which 
steam  accumulated  until  its  force  was  sufficient  to 
cause  an  explosion ;  but  Bunsen  showed,  nearly  twen 
ty-five  years  ago,  that  the  tube  itself  is  sufficient  to 
account  for  all  these  irregularities.  His  experiments 
were  made  upon  the  Great  Geyser  in  Iceland,  the 
tube  of  which  is  from  ten  to  eighteen  feet  in  diame 
ter,  and  has  been  probed  to  a  depth  of  seventy  or 
seventy-five  feet,  lie  ascertained  the  temperature  of 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     183 

the  water  at  various  parts  of  the  tube  just  before  an 
explosion,  and  found  that,  strange  to  say,  it  was  no 
where  boiling  hot.  This  expression  requires  some 
explanation.  Our  phrase  u  boiling  hot"  does  not 
signify  any  particular  temperature.  In  the  first  place 
different  liquids  boil  at  very  different  heats.  Ether 
and  alcohol  boil  long  before  water :  mercury,  and 
most  other  fluids  familiar  to  us  in  daily  life,  require 
a  much  higher  temperature.  If  we  were  to  try  to 
boil  mercury  in  a  lead  or  tin  spoon,  the  spoon  would 
melt  before  the  mercury  would  boil.  But,  even  with 
one  and  the  same  liquid,  the  boiling-point  depends 
on  the  pressure.  Water  may  be  heated  in  a  closed 
vessel  to  400°  without  boiling.  Our  boiling  point  of 
212°  Farenheit  is  the  temperature  at  which  water 
boils  at  the  level  of  the  sea  at  a  barometric  pressure 
of  thirty  inches  of  mercury.  As  we  ascend  in  alti 
tude,  the  temperature  of  boiling  water  decreases. 

The  boiling-point  for  any  pressure  is  the  tempera 
ture  of  saturated  steam  at  that  pressure.  Assuming 
the  altitude  of  the  geyser  basin  at  about  sixty-five 
hundred  feet,  we  have  (2-3.64  inches  barometer)  200° 
for  the  temperature  of  the  water  at  boiling-point. 
At  different  depths  in  the  geyser  tube,  when  it  is 
full  of  water,  we  have  (by  rough  calculation)  the  fol 
lowing  boiling-points  :  — 

Ten  feet,  210°  ;  twenty  feet,  229°  ;  thirty  feet,  240°; 
forty  feet,  250° ;  fifty  feet,  258°  ;  sixty  feet,  266°  ; 
seventy  feet,  273° ;  one  hundred  feet  (if  the  tube  is 


184  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

so  deep)  290° ;  four  hundred  feet,  380°  (about  a  hun 
dred  and  eighty-five  pounds'  pressure) ;  one  thousand 
feet,  452°,  or  about  453  pounds'  per  square  inch. 

Now,  if  the  water  at  forty  feet  from  the  surface  is, 
say,  245°  hot,  it  can  not  boil ;  but,  if  any  thing  could 
move  it  up  to  thirty  feet,  it  would  there  begin  to  boil, 
and  give  off  steam  vigorously,  because  it  would  be 
several  degrees  above  the  boiling  temperature '  for 
that  depth.  The  pressure  at  forty  feet  from  the 
water  in  the  tube  is  thirty  pounds  per  inch ;  and 
that  of  the  steam  (at  245°),  only  about  twenty-seven 
pounds.  But  at  thirty  feet  the  hydrostatic  pressure 
is  only  twenty-five  pounds;  and  hence,  if  the  water  at 
forty  feet  were  pushed  up  to  this  point,  it  would  be 
hot  enough  to  fly  into  steam,  and  the  steam  would 
have  two  pounds'  surplus  pressure.  The  column  of 
water  above  would,  therefore,  be  lifted.  If  it  were 
entirely  lifted,  so  that  the  whole  tube  above  thirty 
feet  were  full  of  steam,  moving  upward,  the  pressure 
upon  the  water  below  would  be  greatly  reduced,  and 
this  would  fly  into  steam  with  still  greater  excess  of 
power.  Practically,  the  two  operations  take  place 
simultaneously;  and  from  the  middle,  upward  and 
downward,  the  whole  geyser  tube  bursts  into  steam, 
and  blows  its  contents  out  with  great  force. 

The  necessary  preliminary  lifting  of  the  geyser 
column  is  effected  by  portions  of  steam,  generated  at 
the  hottest  points  in  the  side-ducts,  and  forcing  their 
way  into  the  main  tube.  Here  they  meet  with  cooler 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     185 

water,  by  which  they  are  condensed,  unless,  before 
that  takes  place,  they  lift  the  whole  column  enough  to 
cause  an  eruption.  The  entrance,  condensation,  and 
collapse  of  these  bodies  of  steam,  may  be  distin 
guished  at  the  surface  by  a  sudden  "jump,"  and 
subsidence  again  of  the  water  in  the  geyser-pool  over 
the  tube,  accompanied  by  explosive  reports  from  be 
low.  Tyndall  aptly  calls  these  movements  abortive 
eruptions.  After  numerous  repetitions  of  them,  dur 
ing  which  the  water  in  the  tube  reaches  its  maximum 
heat  throughout,  some  larger  lift  than  usual  hoists 
the  whole  affair  with  its  own  petard,  and  it  becomes 
the  inquisitive  observer  to  stand  clear. 

The  duration  of  an  eruption  depends  upon  the 
amount  of  sufficiently  hot  water  "  banked  up  "  in  the 
subterranean  channels  which  supply  it.  Its  conclu 
sion  is  marked  by  a  diminution  of  steam  pressure  in 
the  tube  and  a  condensation  of  the  remaining  steam, 
causing  a  suction  downward,  which  draws  back  the 
water  from  the  surface-pool. 


186  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

V. 

THE    LOWER    GEYSER-BASIN    OF    THE    FIRE-HOLE. 

WE  approached  the  geyser-basin  with  our  expec 
tation  at  the  boiling-point,  and  ready  to  discharge; 
for  we  had  among  the  baggage  two  copies  of  "  Scrib- 
ner's,"  containing  Mr.  Lang-ford's  account  of  the 
wonders  of  the  region,  as  seen  by  the  Washburne  ex 
ploring  party.  His  article  occupied  two  numbers,  and 
we  had  t\vo  copies  of  each  :  so  four  persons  could  be 
accommodated  with  intellectual  sustenance  at  one 
time.  For  the  other  two,  it  was,  as  one  of  them 
mournfully  observed,  "Testaments,  or  nothinV 

Mr.  Langford's  articles  (see  "  Scribner's  "  for  May 
and  June,  1871)  were  vivid  and  tascinating;  and  we 
found  them,  in  the  end,  highly  accurate.  At  the  out 
set,  however,  we  were  inclined  to  believe  them  some 
what  exaggerated;  and  Thrasher  wras  divided  between 
his  desire  to  catch  an  instantaneous  view  of  a  spout 
ing  column  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  feet  high,  and 
his  ambition  to  prove,  by  the  relentless  demonstration 
of  photography,  that  these  vents  of  steam  and  hot 
water  were  unot  half  as  big  as  they  had  been  cracked 
up  to  be." 

We  were  not  at  first  aware  that  there  are  two  gey 
ser-basins  on  the  Fire-Hole  River;  the  upper  one, 


WONDERS  OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     187 

ten  miles  above  the  other,  being  the  smaller,  but  con 
taining  the  largest  geysers.  It  was  this  one  which 
Washbu  rue's  party,  coming  from  Yellowstone  Lake, 
first  stumbled  upon,  and,  after  viewing  its  splendid 
display,  naturally  passed  by  the  inferior  basin  with 
little  notice.  But  we,  emerging  from  the  forest,  and 
finding  ourselves  on  the  border  of  a  great  gray  plain, 
with  huge  mounds  in  the  distance,  from  which  arose 
perpetually  clouds  of  steam,  supposed  we  had  reached 
the  great  sensation,  and  prepared  to  be  enthusiastic 
or  cynical  as  circumstances  might  dictate. 

We  rode  for  a  mile  across  the  barren  plain,  picking 
our  way  to  avoid  the  soft  places.  This  is  quite  neces 
sary  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  hot-springs.  Where 
they  have  deposited  a  white,  hard  crust,  it  is  gener 
ally  strong  enough  to  bear  horse  and  man  ;  but,  over 
large  areas,  the  ground  is  like  what  we  call,  in  the 
East,  "spring-holes; "  and  the  treacherous  surface 
permits  uncomfortable  slumping  through,  haply  into 
scalding  water.  It  is  not  very  deep;  but  a  small 
depth  under  such  circumstances  is  enough  to  make  a 
fellow  "  suffer  some,"  like  the  "lobster  in  the  lobster- 
pot." 

The  plain  contains  a  few  scattered  springs;  and 
along  the  river,  its  western  border,  there  are  many  in 
active  ebullition.  The.  principal  group  of  geysers  is 
at  the  upper  or  southern  end,  extending  for  some  dis 
tance  up  the  valley  of  a  small  tributary  from  the  east. 
With  cautious  daring,  we  rode  up  the  side  of  the 


188  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

great  white  mound,  winding  among  the  numerous  fis 
sures,  craters,  and  reservoirs  that  on  every  side  of  us 
hissed,  gurgled,  or  quietly  vapored,  with  now  and 
then  a  slight  explosion,  and  a  spurt  to  the  height  of 
a  dozen  feet  or  more.  Sawtelle's  dog  nosed  suspi 
ciously  around  several  of  the  basins,  until,  finding 
one  that  seemed  not  too  hot  for  a  bath,  he  plunged 
in,  and  emerged  in  a  great  hurry,  with  a  yelp  of  dis 
approbation. 

A  couple  of  dead  pines  stood,  lonesome  enough,  in 
the  side  of  the  hill,  "  whence  all  the  rest  had  fled."  — 
They  had  died  at  their  posts,  and  to  the  said*  posts  we 
made  fast  our  horses,  and  ascended  a  few  rods  far 
ther,  until  we  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  summit 
springs.  There  were  two  or  three  large  vents  at  the 
bottom  of  deep  reservoirs  or  intricate  caverns.  It 
gives  one  an  unpleasant  thrill,  at  first,  to  hear  the 
tumult  of  the  imprisoned  forces,  and  to  feel  their 
throes  and  struggles  shaking  the  ground  beneath 
one's  feet;  but  this  soon  passes  away,  and  the  phi 
losopher  is  enabled  to  stand  with  equanimity  on  the 
rim  of  the  boiling  flood,  or  even  to  poke  his  inquisi 
tive  nose  into  some  dark  fissure,  out  of  which,  per 
haps,  in  a  few  moments  more  a  mass  of  uproarious 
liquid  and  vapor  will  burst  forth. 

We  lingered  much  longer  in  this  basin  than  my 
brief  notice  of  it  indicates ;  for,  you  see,  we  thought 
we  had  found  the  geysers ;  and  oh  the  hours  that 
we  spent  "  identifying "  the  individual  springs  that 


WONDERS  OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     189 

Langford  had  described  1  Since  the  largest  eruptions 
we  observed  did  not  exceed  forty-five  feet  in  height, 
we  set  down  his  account  as  hugely  overdrawn,  and 
were  deeply  disgusted  at  the  depravity  of  travelers. 
But  Sawtelle  remarked,  in  his  quiet  way,  that,  "if  it 
wrere  not  for  that  there  article  in  that  there  magazine, 
these  yer  springs  would  be  considered  a  big  thing, 
after  all ;  and  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  to  let  the 
magazine  go  to  thunder,  and  enjoy  the  scenery." 
This  sensible  advice  we  followed  with  much  profit 
and  pleasure ;  and  we  are  all  now  ready  to  admit  that 
our  happening  upon  the  wrong  lot  of  geysers  first  was 
a  most  fortunate  occurrence,  since  we  should  other 
wise  have  been  tempted  to  pass  them  by  as  insignifi 
cant.  The  truth  is,  that,  in  some  of  the  elements  of 
beauty  and  interest,  the  lower  basin  is  superior  to  its 
more  startling  rival.  It  is  broader,  and  more  easily 
surveyed  as  a  whole ;  and  its  springs  are  more  numer 
ous,  though  not  so  powerful.  Nothing  can  be  lovelier 
than  the  sight,  at  sunrise,  of  the  white  steam- columns, 
tinged  with  rosy  morning,  ascending  against  the  back 
ground  of  the  dark-pine  woods  and  the  clear  sky  above. 
The  variety  in  form  and  character  of  these  springs  is 
quite  remarkable.  A  few  of  them  make  faint  de 
posits  of  sulphur,  though  the  greater  number  appear 
to  be  purely  silicious.  One  very  large  basin  (forty 
by  sixty  feet)  is  filled  with  the  most  beautiful  slime, 
varying  in  tint  from  white  to  pink,  which  blobs  and 
spits  away,  trying  to  boil,  like  a  heavy  theologian 


190  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

forcing  a  laugh  to  please  a  friend,  in  spite  of  his 
natural  specific  gravity.  We  called  it  the  Paint-Vat; 
and  Hayden's  people,  I  see,  have  called  it  the  Mud- 
Puff.  Paint-Mud,  or  Puff- Vat,  or  any  other  permuta 
tion  or  combination,  will  do. 

A  geyser  in  its  old  age  becomes  a  quiet,  deep  pool, 
or  laiKj.  This  may  occur  by  reason  of  the  choking  of 
the  vent,  or  the  gradual  growth  in  altitude  of  the 
mound  or  tube,  so  that  the  hydrostatic  pressure  per 
petually  prevents  explosive  discharges  ;  or  any  other 
causs  leading  to  the  opening  of  some  new  vent  in  its 
neighborhood  ;  or,  finally,  a  local  diminution  of  the 
heat,  a  change  in  the  subterranean  channels  by  \vhich 
the  heated  vapors  reach  the  spring-water,  or  such  an 
excess  of  the  water-supply  as  prevents  any  part  of  it 
from  being  converted  into  steam.  In  Hayden's  report 
it  is  suggested  that  the  geyser  eruptions  must  be  most 
frequent  and  grand  in  the  spring  and  autumn,  when 
the  supply  of  water  is  most  abundant.  It  is  possible, 
ho\vever,  that  a  large  and  sudden  supply  of  water 
may  render  them  less  frequent,  or  less  grand,  or  both. 

The  lauys,  or  extinct  geysers,  are  the  most  beautiful 
objects  of  all.  Around  their  borders  the  white  in 
crustations  form  quaint  arabesques  and  ornamental 
bosses,  resembling  petrified  vegetable  growths.  (At 
the  risk  of  spoiling  the  rhetorical  effort  of  this  pas 
sage,  I  will  boldly  say  that  they  most  frequently  look 
like  sponges  and  cauliflowers.)  The  sides  of  the  res 
ervoir  are  corrugated  and  indented  fancifully,  like  the 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     191 

recesses  and  branching  passages  of  a  fairy  cavern. 
The  water  is  brightly  but  not  deeply  blue.  Over  its 
surface  curls  a  light  vapor;  through  its  crystal  clear 
ness  one  may  gaze,  apparently,  to  unfathomable 
depths;  and,  seen  through  this  wondrous  medium, 
the  white  walls  seem  like  silver,  ribbed  and  crusted 
with  pearl.  When  the  sun  strikes  across  the  SCPHO, 
the  last  touch  of  unexpected  beauty  is  added.  The 
projected  shadow  of  the  decorated  edge  reveals  by 
contrast  new  glories  in  the  depths :  every  ripple  on 
the  surface  makes  marvelous  play  of  tint  and  shade 
on  the  pearly  bottom.  One  half  expects  to  see  a 
lovely  naiad  emerge  with  floating  grace  from  her  fan- 
tastically-carven  covert,  and  gayly  kiss  her  snowy 
hand  through  the  blue  wave.  AVhat  we  did  see,  in 
one  such  romantic  instance,  was  the  whitened  skele 
ton  of  a  mountain  buffalo.  Was  it  a  case  of  disap 
pointed  love,  and  suicide?  We  voted  otherwise,  in 
our  degraded  cynicism,  and  decided  that  the  old  fool 
had  come  down  from  the  hills  to  "take  a  little  some 
thing  hot,"  lost  his  footing  (as  folks  will,  who  do 
that  sort  of  thing),  and  got  drowned,  like  Duke  Clar 
ence,  in  his  own  toddy.  "  Served  him  right,"  says 
Hard  pan:  "there  w7as  too  much  water  in  his  drink." 
Whatever  may  be  the  moral  of  it,  no  king  or  saint 
was  ever  more  magnificently  entombed.  Not  the 
shrine  of  St.  Antony  of  Padua,  with  its  white  mar 
bles  and  its  silver  lamps,  is  so  resplendent  as  this 
sepulcher  in  the  wilderness.  Thrasher  thought  it 


192  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

would  make  an  elegant  view,  and  would  "take" 
amazingly  as  part  of  a  stereopticonical  exhibition, 
being  a  great  natural  curiosity.  Everybody  knows 
flies  in  amber ;  but  who  ever  heard  of  a  buifalo  in 
sapphire?  Still,  there  are  some  things  which  Thrasher 
can  not  do;  and  of  these  there  are  a  very  few  which 
he  will  not  even  attempt.  One  of  them  is  to  stand 
astride  of  a  deep  pool  of  hot  water,  greater  in  diam 
eter  than  the  length  of  his  legs,  hold  up  a  camera, 
and  take  a  flying  shot  at  a  sub-aqueous  buffalo. 
With  unutterable  woe  in  his  countenance,  he  pro 
nounced  the  unaccustomed  words,  "  It  can't  be  done," 
and  was  with  difficulty  prevented  from  taking  a  drink 
of  collodion  (by  mistake)  in  his  despair. 

It  was  not  until  we  had  crossed  the  mountains  to 
the  Yellowstone  that  we  discovered,  through  the 
courtesy  of  Lieut.  Doane,  whom  we  met  upon  that 
river,  that  we  had  not  seen  the  grandest  of  the  gey 
sers.  So,  from  the  Great  Canon  we  struck  straight 
across  the  ranges  by  a  new  route,  and,  emerging  upon 
the  Fire-Hole,  followed  it  to  the  upper  basin. 


WONDEES   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE. 

VI. 
THE    UPPER    GEYSER-BASIN    OF    THE    FIRE-HOLE. 


THE  centers  of  the  two  geyser-basins  are  about  ten 
miles  apart;  though  the  distance  along  the  river  be 
tween  them,  in  which  no  springs  are  found,  does  not 
exceed  two  or  three  miles.  It  is  a  lovely  ride,  fringed 
with  groves  made  musical  by  the  rippling  stream,  and 
watched  over  by  the  grandeur  of  the  far  hills.  For  a 
part  of  the  way,  the  traveler  winds  along  the  slopes  of 
vast  accumulations  of  disintegrated  geyser-sinter,  like 
ashes,  only  stained  in  various  colors  with  sulphur  and 
iron,  and  mineral  salts.  At  one  place,  several  enor 
mous  hot-springs,  which  have  built  themselves  up  on 
the  river-bank,  unite  to  pour  over  their  incrusted  rirn 
a  steaming  cascade  into  the  main  current.  But  such 
sights  are  grown  familiar  to  us  by  this  time,  and  we 
do  not  even  ford  the  stream  to  take  a  closer  look  at 
them. 

Just  as  we  were  about  entering  the  upper  basin, 
some  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  four  strange  spots  on 
the  side  of  a  snowy  geyser-mound  in  the  distance 
ahead.  They  looked  like  so  many  dark  paddles  laid 
in  a  row;  but  we  recognized  them,  with  a  thrill  of 
anticipated  feasting,  as  wild  geese,  lying,  with  their 
necks  extended,  to  comfortably  snooze  and  simmer  in 


194  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

the  sun.  It  is  not  a  common  thing  to  catch  wild 
geese  asleep :  so  we  made  preparations  to  terminate 
slumber  with  slaughter.  The  bold  Hardpan  and  ihe 

wise  ,  like  Diomed  and  Ulysses  in  the  glorious 

tenth  book  of  the  Iliad,  "both  lay  down  without  the 
path,"  and  wriggled  towards  the  enemy's  camp, 
while  all  the  rest  of  us  Greeks  awaited  the  result. 
There  was  a  long  interval  of  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  occasional  crackling  of  a  twig.  We  learned  sub 
sequently  that  Ulysses  insisted  on  crawling  half  a 
mile  or  so  upon  his  stomach,  and  made  the  impetuous 
TyJides  Hardpan  do  the  same.  At  length  the  two 
belligerents  emerged  from  the  forest,  in  serpentine 
stillness,  011  the  river-bank,  just  opposite  the  Trojans, 
who  slept  serenely,  but  at  long  range.  Our  warriors, 
sprawled  at  full-length,  and  stretching  out  their 
heads  as  far  as  their  limited  necks  would  allow,  to 
reconnoiter  the  position,  resembled  ludicrously  their 
sleeping  victims.  The  gleam  of  two  rifle-barrels  was 
seen;  a  sharp  double  report  broke  the  stillness;  some 
white  dust  flew  from  the  distant  mound —  and  eighty 
pounds  Troy  weight  of  uninjured  goose-flesh  got  up 
hastily,  and  went  squawking  down  stream.  As  the 
discomfited  sportsmen  returned,  Hardpan  remarked, 
with  assumed  cheerfulness,  that,  by  Jove,  he  had 
scared  'em  some!  But  this  paltry  consolation  availed 
nothing  with  the  well-grieved  Greeks.  So,  our  ex 
periment  in  the  Homeric  line  being  a  failure,  we 
shot  a  couple  of  ordinary  ducks  for  dinner,  and  rode 
meekly  forward. 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE. 

A  short  distance  farther  brought  us  into  the  Upper 
Basin.  This  is  about  three  miles  long  by  half  a  mile 
wide.  Entering  at  the  lower  end,  and  passing  numer 
ous  quiescent  springs,  we  recognized  at  once  the  cone 
of  the  Giant  Geyser,  which  rises  about  ten  feet  above 
the  surface  of  a  low  mound,  and  looks  like  the  petri 
fied  hollow  stump  of  a  big  tree.  Riding  by  it  a  few 
hundred  yards  over  the  white  sinter  that  covered  the 
ground,  we  camped  in  the  edge  of  a  grove,  almost 
under  the  shadow  of  the  architectural  pile  of  the 
Castle  Geyser.  But,  while  we  were  removing  packs 
and  saddles,  a  roar  from  the  north  indicated  some 
unusual  occurrence;  and,  looking  thither,  we  saw  the 
Giant  in  full  activity.  A  few  moments  brought  us  to 
the  spot;  and  approaching  the  geyser  on  the  wind 
ward  side,  to  escape  the  driving  spray,  we  were  able 
to  examine  it  closely.  Out  of  its  throat,  five  feet 
in  diameter,  was  rushing  a  full  column  of  mingled 
steam  and  water,  the  latter  rising  a  hundred  feet  (by 
measurement  taken  of  a  less  than  maximum  height), 
and  the  former  shooting  cloudily  much  higher,  and 
then  drifting  a\vay  with  the  wind.  This  monstrous 
eruption  lasted  three  hours;  and  during  its  continu 
ance  the  volume  of  the  river  into  wrhich  the  water 
flowed  was  nearly  doubled. 

A  dozen  feet  from  the  main  cone  wras  a  small  vent, 
which  for  a  long  time  only  vapored  quietly,  like  a 
meditative  teakettle.  Suddenly,  however,  this  small 
side-vent  began  to  blow  off  steam  with  considerable 


CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

noise  and  power,  and  immediately  the  force  of  the 
Giant  Geyser  was  perceptibly  weakened.  This  was 
a  safety-valve,  or  rather  a  low-water  detector  such  as 
we  attach  to  steam-boilers.  When  the  water  sunk  to 
a  certain  level  under  ground,  the  steam  escaped 
through  this  side-channel,  and  thus  the  pressure  in 
the  main  tube  was  weakened.  We  thought  the  erup 
tion  was  about  to  come  to  a  close ;  but  new  accessions 
of  steam  and  water  below  revived  its  enthusiasm, 
the  safety-valve  shut  up  again,  and  the  column  rose 
to  its  former  height,  this  process  being  several  times 
repeated  during  the  long  continuance  of  the  spring's 
activity. 

Near  the  Giant  is  the  Grotto,  —  a  geyser  which  has 
covered  over  its  cone,  so  that  the  vent  is  partly  hori 
zontal.  Some  of  us  put  our  heads  in,  and  could  see 
the  boiling  and  muttering  wrater  about  twenty  feet 
below.  One  of  the  party  proposed  to  crawl  through 
the  cavern  of  sinter,  with  irregular  side-openings, 
which  housed  this  spring;  but  he  was  fortunately 
dissuaded.  If  he  had  tried  it,  he  would  have  been  a 
parboiled  man,  and  of  no  further  use  to  anybody, 
except  to  point  a  paragraph  of  soul-harrowing  de 
scription  in  this  article,  and  to  stop  that  hole  against 
some  other  fool,  until  the  operation  of  time  and  hot 
water  had  reduced  him  to  the  merely  ornamental 
condition  of  a  skeleton,  like  that  of  the.  buffalo. 
lately  described,  —  the  only  insoluble  things  about 
him  being  his  bones,  and  how  they  got  there.  For 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     197 

the  geyser  suddenly  began  to  play,  and  a  scalding 
stream  poured  from  the  openings  just  now  so  safe  and 
dry. 

This  geyser  also  had  its  safety-valve  companion, 
in  fact,  more  than  one  of  them.  The  one  which  most 
attracted  us  was  a  deep  and  beautiful  reservoir,  into 
which  ran  one  of  the  streams  from  the  gushing  Grotto. 
Supposing  that  the  reservoir  was  thus  being  filled, 
we  placed  a  pebble  on  the  margin  at  the  water's  edge, 
that  we  might  measure  the  rate  of  its  rise ;  but  re 
turning  in  eight  minutes,  we  found,  to  our  surprise, 
that  the  water  had  fallen  a  foot.  The  geyser  was 
emptying  the  reservoir  from  below,  while  it  returned 
but  a  portion  of  its  contents  by  the  surface  stream  we 
had  noticed.  One  of  the  scientific  gentlemen  said  he 
knew7  all  about  it,  it  was  in  Greenleaf 's  Arithmetic : 
"  A  cistern  has  two  spouts  :  one  is  able  to  fill  it  in 
one  hour,  and  the  other  will  empty  it  in  half  an  hour. 
Now,  if  the  diameter  of  the  cistern  be  173,258,421 
feet,  and  the  height  25,479,623  feet,  and  the  weight 
of  the  water  62.49  pounds  per  cubic  foot,  and  the 
rate  of  legal  interest  six  per  cent,  and  both  spouts  be 
running,  how  long  will  it  take  to  fill  the  cistern?" 
He  said  it  was  only  necessary  to  substitute  x  and  y 
for  some  of  these  quantities,  to  make  the  case  apply 
to  the  Grotto  Geyser;  and  he  promised  to  work  the 
thing  out  for  me  when  we  got  home.  But  now  he 
says  that  part  of  his  Greenleaf  has  been  torn  out ; 
and,  besides,  he  is  sure  it  is  one  of  those  things  "  that 


198  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

no  fellow  can  find  out,"  because  it  depends  on  the 
amount  of  water,  which  varies  with  the  reports  of  the 
Signal  Service  Bureau. 

After  we  returned  to  camp,  Old  Faithful,  in  many 
respects  the  most  beautiful  geyser  of  all,  gave  us  a 
brief  but  very  satisfactory  exhibition.  This  geyser 
is  situated  near  the  upper  end  of  the  basin,  upon  the 
top  of  a  symmetrical  mound;  and  its  tube,  being 
smooth  and  vertical,  gives  a  remarkably  straight  and 
perfect  jet,  rising,  sometimes,  to  the  height  of  two 
hundred  feet.  The  performance  of  Old  Faithful 
lasts  only  about  twenty  minutes;  but  it  is  repeated 
generally  every  hour.  It  was  in  full  sight  from  camp, 
and  we  could  admire  it  at  our  ease,  without  leaving 
our  late  and  welcome  dinner.  A  lively  breeze  car 
ried  the  white  steam  away  to  one  side,  and  left  a 
clean,  sharp,  vertical  edge  on  the  other  side,  marking 
against  the  woods  and  the  sky  the  column  of  the 
fountain,  and  giving  to  the  whole  the  appearance  of 
a  gigantic  plume.  At  intervals  during  the  night  we 
turned  our  heads,  without  rising,  as  we  heard  Old 
.Faithful's  booming  signal,  and  beheld  through  the 
trees  the  pillar  of  cloud,  snow-white  and  sparkling  in 
the  starry  night. 

Probably  the  geysers  are  not  regular  in  their  times 
of  eruption.  The  Great  Geyser  of  Iceland  is  notori 
ously  lazy  and  whimsical ;  and  often  parties  are 
obliged  to  leave  without  having  seen  it  discharge  at 
all,  after  camping  and  watching  beside  it  for  many 


WONDERS  OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     199 

days.  In  our  American  geyser-basins,  the  springs 
are  so  numerous,  that  no  one  fails  to  see  at  least  a 
dozen  eruptions,  though  the  largest  are  not  the  most 
frequent.  Here  is  a  list  of  some  of  the  principal 
geysers  of  the  Upper  Basin,  as  seen  by  Washburne's, 
Hayden's,  or  our  party.  The  heights  have  been  de 
termined  by  actual  though  sometimes  rude  measure 
ment;  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  they  gener 
ally  represent  the  maximum  observed.  Some  of  the 
geysers  maintain  this  maximum  height  with  surpris 
ing  steadiness  :  others  rapidly  diminish  in  power. 

Giant.  —  Diameter,  5  feet ;  height,  140  feet ;  lasts  3 
hours. 

Giantess. — Diameter,  18  feet;  height  of  small  jet, 
250  feet;  lasts  20  minutes. 

Beehive.  —  Diameter,  2  feet;  height,  219  feet;  lasts 
20  minutes. 

Grand  Geyser.  —  Diameter,  6  feet;  height,  200  feet; 
lasts  20  minutes. 

Old  Faithful.  —  Diameter,  20  inches;  height,  200 
feet;  lasts  20  minutes. 

Grotto.  —  Diameter,  4  feet;  height,  GO  feet;  lasts  30 
minutes. 

Castle.  —  Diameter,  3  feet ;  height,  50  feet. 

Fan.  —  Height,  60  feet;  lasts  10  to  30  minutes. 

Besides  these,  there  are  numerous  geysers  throwing 
their  jets  from  ten  to  forty  feet,  and  many  springs 
which  bear  every  indication  of  being  geysers,  though 
they  have  not  yet  been  observed  in  violent  action. 


200  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

A  still  larger  number  have  once  been  geysers,  and 
have  now  relapsed  into  the  quiet  old  age  of  the  laug, 
or  have  never  been  geysers,  but  hope  to  be  some  clay, 
when  they  have  accumulated  a  tube  of  sufficient 
height, — just  as  boys,  when  I  was  a  boy,  looked 
forward  to  the  achievements  of  manhood  as  synony 
mous  with  tho  possession  of  high  standing-collars. 

It  was  hard  for  us  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  this 
interesting  region;  but  duty  called,  and  lack  of  pro 
visions  and  ammunition  induced  us  to  listen.  So, 
from  the  Upper  Basin  we  went  back  to  Virginia  City, 
by  forced  marches,  in  four  days,  at  the  rate  of  over 
thirty  miles  a  day.  Oar  homeward  journey  was  en 
livened  by  one  small  "  Indian  encounter/'  which,  if  I 
should  embellish  it  after  the  manner  of  frontier  his 
torians,  would  cause  the  sympathetic  scalps  of  many 
a  Christian  household  to  tingle.  But  "my  con 
science,  hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,"  bids 
me  confess  that  there  was  no  fighting  done,  and  that 
our  running  was  executed  with  dignified  firmness. 

This  is  not  all  of  my  story ;  for  I  shall  go  back,  as 
the  novelists  do,  and  take  up  the  thread  of  the  tale 
in  the  middle  thereof,  narrating  in  my  next  chapter 
our  experiences  of  the  great  lake,  cafion,  and  cataracts 
of  the  Yellowstone. 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     201 
VII. 

YELLOWSTONE    LAKE    AND    RIVER. 

THE  great  lake  from  which  the  Yellowstone  River 
flows  is  about  twenty-two  miles  long  from  north  to 
south,  and  ten  to  fifteen  miles  wide  from  east  to  west. 
Several  long  peninsulas  extend  into  it  from  the 
southern  shore;  so  that  the  shape  of  the  lake  has  been 
compared  to  a  human  hand.  The  imaginative  gen 
tleman  who  discovered  this  resemblance  must  have 
thought  the  size  and  form  of  fingers  to  be  quite  insig 
nificant,  provided  the  number  was  complete.  The 
hand  in  question  is  afflicted  with  elephantiasis  in  the 
thumb,  dropsy  in  the  little  finger,  hornet-bites  on 
the  third  finger,  and  the  last  stages  of  starvation  in 
the  other  two.  There  are  several  islands  in  the  lake ; 
and  soundings  taken  at  many  points  indicate  a  depth 
nowhere  exceeding  fifty  fathoms.  The  altitude  above 
sea-level  is  7,427  feet. 

The  scene  presented  to  our  eyes  by  this  lake,  as  we 
emerged  from  the  thick  forests  on  the  western  side, 
and  trod  with  exultation  its  sandy  shore,  was  indeed 
lovely.  The  broad  expanse  of  shining  water,  the 
wooded  banks  and  bosky  islands,  the  summits  of  lofty 
mountains  beyond  it,  faintly  flushed  with  sunset,  the 
deep  sky,  and  the  perfect  solitude  and  silence,  com 
bined  to  produce  a  memorable  impression. 


202  CAMP  AND   CAT] IN. 

We  camped  near  a  group  of  hot  springs,  in  one  of 
which  we  cooked  our  beans  for  breakfast  by  suspend 
ing  the  kettle  over  night  in  the  boiling  tide.  Beans 
take  a  good  while  to  "  do,"  especially  at  such  alti 
tudes,  where  the  temperature  of  boiling  water  is  many 
degrees  lower  than  at  sea-level.  We  regarded  this 
piece  of  cookery,  therefore,  as  a  culinary  triumph. 

Near  our  camp  was  another  hot-spring,  illustrating 
in  a  curious  way  the  precipitation  of  silica,  to  which  I 
have  alluded  in  previous  articles.  The  water  emerged 
at  high  temperature  from  a  vent  in  the  bottom  of  the 
lake  two  or  three  feet  from  tlie  shore.  Coming  in 
contact  with  the  cold  water  of  the  lake,  it  lost  so 
much  heat  by  the  mixture  as  to  be  forced  to  precipi 
tate  its  silica;  but  this  precipitation  had  always  taken 
place  at  a  certain  distance  from  the  vent.  In  the 
course  of  time,  therefore,  a  wall  of  silica  had  been 
built  up  through  the  lake-water,  like  a  coffer-dam; 
so  that  now  the  hot  spring  was  completely  protected 
against  the  cold  water,  and  stood  in  the  lake  like  a 
basin,  with  its  surface  several  inches  above  the  lake- 
surface,  and  its  hot  current  spilling  over  this  self- 
constructed  brim.  On  the  shore- side  there  was  no 
such  wall. 

The  lake  swarms  with  salmon-trout,  weighing  from 
one  to  four  pounds  each.  Many  of  them  are  afflicted 
with  a  curious  intestinal  worm,  of  a  different  species 
from  the  two  which  are  already  recognized  as  para 
sites  of  the  salmon  genus  in  Europe.  Too  many  of 


WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE.     203 

these  tape-worms  are  not  good  for  a  trout ;  but  five  or 
six  do  not  seem  to  hurt  him  much.  We  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  rejecting,  from  the  great  number  which  \ve 
caught  with  hook  and  line  in  a  short  time,  such  as 
were  unfit  for  food.  The  wormy  fellows  bite  the 
best,  which  is  strange,  when  one  considers  that  they 
have  already  more  bait  in  them  than  is  wholesome. 

Thrasher  was  wild  with  enthusiasm  about  the  views 
to  be  obtained  from  every  point  around  the  lake ;  and 
it  took  the  whole  company  to  tear  him  away  from 
each  successive  promontory.  By  judiciously  indul 
ging  him  on  occasions  of  peculiar  importance,  however, 
we  succeeded  in  bringing  him  to  the  outlet,  at  the 
north-west  corner  of  the  lake,  where  the  Yellowstone 
proper  begins.  Here  we  camped  in  a  beautiful  grove 
commanding  a  prospect  of  the  lake,  woods,  moun 
tains,  and  river,  so  lovely  as  to  linger  yet  in  my  memo 
ry,  —  the  last  and  the  fairest  picture  of  all.  About 
six  miles  below  the  lake,  and  again  at  eight  miles, 
there  are  groups  of  sulphur-springs  and  "mud- volca 
noes."  The  presence  of  sulphur  in  these  waters  leads 
to  the  formation  of  numerous  salts,  such  as  alum,  &c., 
and  the  precipitation  by  sublimation  of  beautiful 
specimens  of  crystallized  sulphur.  These  are  very 
fragile;  and  it  severely  taxed  the  ingenuity  of  our 
party  to  pack  them,  in  the  absence  of  suitable  materi 
als,  so  as  to  safely  transport  them.  ("  The  absence 
of  materials  "  is  very  poor  stuff  to  pack  things  in,  as 
you  will  find  out  if  you  try  it.) 


204  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

It  was  while  venturing,  in  search  of  specimens,  too 
near  the  edge  of  a  vehemently  bubbling  and  roaring 
caldron,  that  Thrasher  slumped  through  the  thin 
crust,  and  took  a  steam-and-sulphtir  bath  up  to  his 
waist.  He  scrambled  out  so  quickly,  however,  that 
he  suffered  no  apparent  effects,  unless  we  were  right 
in  attributing  to  chemical  re-actions  the  increased 
spottiness  of  his  corduroys. 

The  largest  "mud  volcano,"  or  geyser,  is  situated 
on  a  steep  hillside,  and  surrounded  with  trees.  The 
crater  is  about  forty  feet  in  diameter  at  the  top,  ami 
contracts  rapidly  to  less  than  half  that  size.  By 
cautiously  approaching  the  edge,  and  seizing  the 
opportunity  when  the  steam  drifts  away,  a  view  may 
be  obtained  of  the  dingy  and  dismal  interior.  At  the 
depth  of  about  thirty  feet  may  be  seen  the  surface 
of  the  boiling  mass,  consisting  of  very  thin  mud  in 
the  most  violent  agitation.  We  saw  nothing  like  an 
eruption  ;  and  the  only  proof  of  such  an  occurrence 
is  the  condition  of  the  surrounding  trees,  some  of 
which  have  been  killed,  while  others  (even  young 
and  growing  trees)  are  covered  more  or  less  with 
mud. 

About  eighteen  miles  below  the  lake,  the  Yellow 
stone  plunges  from  its  high  level  into  tho  upper 
canon.  Only  a  few  rapids  give  warning  of  the  ap 
proaching  change.  The  river  runs  between  low  but 
steep,  and  sometimes  vertical  rocky  banks,  until, 
bursting  through  a  narrow  gateway,  it  leapn  down  in 


WONDERS   OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     205 

a  fine  cataract  a  hundred  and  forty  feet.  Thence  it 
flows  tumultuously  onward  (re-enforced  by  Cascade 
Creek,  which  tumbles  into  it  from  the  West),  through 
a  picturesque  canon,  for  about  one-third  of  a  mile ; 
and  then  comes  the  grand  cataract,  three  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  in  one  unbroken  plunge.  The  surface  of  the 
country  around  rather  increases  than  diminishes  in  alti 
tude  as  we  follow  the  river  down.  The  canon  is  carved 
in  it;  and  the  banks  rise  from  twelve  hundred  to 
fifteen  hundred  feet  above  the  river  in  the  bottom. 

A  curious  architectural  effect  is  given  to  the  scene 
by  the  peculiar  form  of  the  canon.  The  material  of 
the  country  just  below  the  falls  is  largely  composed 
of  soft  clays,  sand,  tufa,  volcanic  ash  and  breccia,  &c  , 
v/ith  occasional  masses  (layers  or  boulders)  of  basalt 
and  other  harder  rocks.  In  this  soft  material  the 
agencies  of  rain,  frost,  and  mountain-streams,  have 
wrought  effectively.  Every  little  brook  or  temporary 
stream  that  spills  into  the  Yellowstone  at  this  point 
from  the  surrounding  highlands  has  cut  a  deep  notch 
of  its  own;  and  between  these  side-gulches  great  but 
tresses  are  left  standing  in  the  main  canon.  These 
would  soon  be  carried  away  by  the  surface-sweeping 
agencies  mentioned,  but  for  the  fact  that  thc-ir  forces 
toward  the  river  are  protected  by  terminal  rock- 
masses  too  hard  to  be  thus  disintegrated  and  removed. 
But  their  upper  surfaces,  between  these  termini  and 
the  main  bank,  are  sometimes  deeply  degraded,  so 
that  the  rocky  points  stand  like  pinnacles.  We  went 


206  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

out  upon  one  or  two  of  them,  first  descending  some 
what,  then  traversing  a  narrow  neck  (about  a  yard 
wide,  with  a  precipice  on  either  hand),  and  then  climb 
ing  up  to  the  pinnacle.  The  feat  is  more  perilous  in 
appearance  than  in  reality;  for  the  soft,  ashy  material 
gives  excellent  footing,  and,  even  if  one  slipped,  one 
might  slide  to  the  bottom  without  injury.  Standing 
upon  the  pinnacle  is  far  more  trying  to  the  nerves. 
Here  one  finds  one's  self  upon  a  rock  not  larger  than 
a  dinner-table,  with  an  almost  vertical  precipice  of 
more  than  a,  thousand  feet  on  three  sides,  and  a  slim 
connection  with  terra  firma  on  the  fourth.  Most 
people  prefer,  under  the  circumstances,  to  sit  down : 
so  at  least  did  we,  and  gathered  composure  by  a  brief 
rest,  before  giving  ourselves  up  to  the  contemplation 
of  one  of  the  most  magnificent  scenes  on  earth. 

From  our  point  of  observation  we  command  a  view 
of  several  miles  of  the  canon.  To  the  north,  it  soon- 
disappears  by  a  sharp  turn,  and  penetrates  gloomier 
scenes.  We  can  see  the  black  walls  that  overhang, 
far  away,  its  awful  depths.  Southward,  and  beneath 
and  around  us,  there  is  no  gloom,  but  grandeur 
steeped  in  glory.  A  thousand  feet  below  us.  the  river, 
tiny  in  the  distance,  stretches  its  ribbon  of  emerald, 
embroidered  with  silver  foam.  The  great  walls  of 
the  canon  glow  with  barbaric  splendor,  in  such  hues 
as  Nature's  palette  seldom  furnishes.  The  bright 
yellow  of  the  sulphury  clay  is  splashed  with  blood- 
red  stains  of  iron,  and  striped  here  and  there  with 


WONDERS  OF  THE   YELLOWSTONE.     207 

black  bands  of  lava.  It  is  the  "  Schwarz  —  Roth  — 
Gold"  of  the  ancient  German  banner,  than  which 
there  never  was  or  will  be  a  more  gorgeous  blazonry. 
Above  it  the  dark  pine-woods  finish  the  picture  with 
a  green  fringe  against  the  bine  depths  of  the  sky ; 
and,  as  the  eye  ranges  up  the  long  line  of  crested 
pinnacles  and  shining  precipices,  it  rests  at  last  upon 
the  snowy  column  of  the  distant  cataracts.  It  is  too 
far  aw^ay  to  make  its  warning  heard.  This  is  the 
banquet  of  the  eye,  and  the  ear  is  not  invited.  In 
the  clear,  upper  air  we  approach  the  perfect  stillness 
of  which  the  poet  sings,  — "  that  lucid  interspace 
'twixt  world  and  world,"  where  dwell  the  gods, 

"  Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  rnar 
Their  secret,  everlasting  calm." 

To  bid  farewell  to  such  a  scene  is  like  descending 
from  the  heights  of  heaven.  Precious  indeed  is  the 
memory  of  so  fair  a  vision,  yet  blent  forever  with  the 
pain  t)f  yearning.  O  silent  splendors  of  solitude  ! 
shall  we  never  greet  you  again?  Verily,  not  as  be 
fore;  for  ye  are  now  part  of  a  National  Park,  and  ye 
have  a  superintendent,  and  are  speedily  to  be  provided 
with  a  turnpike  and  a  hotel,  and  daily  stages  connect 
ing  with  the  railroad ;  and,  when  \ve  revisit  you,  \vo 
shall  pay  toll  to  the  man  who  owns  the  staircase  at 
the  pinnacle ;  and  the  fair  being  who  leans  upon  our 
arm  will  view  the  scene  through  her  lorgnette,  and 
say  it  is  not  so  nice  as  Niagara,  and  hurry  us  away. 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OP  WASHINGTON 
TERRITORY. 


0  ice !  Disconsolate  drinkers  hung  about 
the  bar-rooms,  sipping  insipid  cocktails  and 
cobblers,  or  playing  "freeze  out*'  in  grim 
irony,  to  decide  who  should  have  the  first 
lump  out  of  that  refrigerant  cargo  daily  expected 
from  the  North.  Butter  pathetically ,  swam  about 
on  the  platters  ;  cucumbers  visibly  wilted  for  disap 
pointed  hope ;  fresh  meat  grew  prematurely  old  with 
sorrow  ;  the  ice-cream  shebangs  shut  up  their  busi 
ness,  and  all  over  town  might  be  heard  the  dia 
bolical  chuckle  and  supercilious  snuffle  of  the  tea 
kettles,  celebrating  the  triumph  of  hot  water  over 
cold.  Even  the  Templars  couldn't  stand  it.  That 
worthy  association  had  no  scruples  about  appropriat 
ing  the  convivial  songs  of  all  ages,  and  skillfully 
injecting  "cold  water"  into  the  place  originally  oc 
cupied  by  "  ruby  wine,"  to  adapt  them  for  the  uses  of 
reform ;  but  the  strongest  stomach  in  the  fraternity 
208 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     209 

rebelled  at  the  Bacchanalian  choruses,  "  Warm  water 
for  me!"  "Tepid  and  bright  in  its  liquid  light,"  "In 
the  simmering  stream  our  bro\vs  we  lave,  and  par 
boil  our  lips  in  the  crystal  wave."  For  once,  the  all- 
transforming  wand  of  the  Muse  of  Temperance  was 
powerless,  and  the  melodeon  of  the  Lodge  "dried 
up."  This  was  the  situation  at  Portland,  Or.  ;  and 
it  was,  to  borrow  the  most  expressive  word  in  the 
Chinook  jargon,  —  that  ripest  fruit  of  time,  product 
of  all  languages,  essence  of  concentrated  speech,  —  it 
was,  I  say,  cult  us :  yes,  Injns  cultus,  or,  in  feeble  Saxon, 
highly  inconvenient,  disgusting,  demoralizing. 

Happy  Dalles  City,  meanwhile,  reveled  in  ice.  The 
living  were  content,  the  unburied  dead  were  comforta 
ble,  and  topers  were  saved  the  additional  sin  of  pro 
fanity  ;  for  the  seductive  bar-room  sign  of  "  Iced  Mixed 
Drinks"  was  not  a  taunting,  fraudulent  voice  crying 
in  the  sage-brush.  The  philosophic  observer,  inquir 
ing  as  to  the  cause  of  this  strange  contrast,  was  in 
formed  that  a  mysterious  ice-cave  in  Washington 
Territory  constituted  a  reserve  upon  which  the  Dalles 
fell  back  in  seasons  when  the  improvidence  of  the 
Oregonians,  and  some  unusual  irregularity  in  cli 
mate,  combined,  exhausted  the  supply  of  the  great 
necessity  of  civilized  life. 

Moved  by  various  individual  motives,  but  united 
in  the  desire  to  render  thanks  at  headquarters  for 
this  blessed  relief,  a  small  party  of  us  formed  the 
plan  of  an  excursion  to  the  cave.  There  was  a  keen 


210  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

and  portly  Portlander,  who  cherished  a  secret  inten 
tion  of  building  a  hotel,  constructing  a  wagon-road, 
and  creating  out  of  the  cave  a  fashionable  ice-water 
ing-place.  There  was  a  young,  enthusiastic  tourist 
from  the  Mississippi  Valley,  who,  having  lived  out 
West  till  the  West  was  East,  had  come  to  explore 
the  veritable  Occident,  beyond  which  there  is  none. 
There  was  a  veteran  inhabitant,  who  goes  out  every 
spring  on  snow-shoes,  and  "claims"  the  cave,  under 
an  ingenious  application  of  mining  law,  as  a  mineral 
deposit,  so  as  to  obtain  a  monopoly  of  the  ice-packing 
business.  And,  finally,  there  was  the  present  writer, 
a  person  habitually  animated  by  the  purest  impulses 
known  to  reconstructed  humanity,  who  joined  the 
party  because  he  -wished  to  do  so,  than  which  no 
reason  could  be  more  conclusive,  or  free  from  base 
motives. 

As  we  disembarked  from  the  handsome  steamer  of 
the  Oregon  Steam  Navigation  Company,  near  the 
mouth  of  the  White  Salmon,  we  found  ourselves  as 
sembled  upon  the  sandy  bank,  as  follows  :  four  men, 
four  horses,  and  a  huge  quantity  of  bacon,  crackers, 
&c.,  together  with  a  pair  of  blankets  apiece.  The 
work  of  distributing  the  baggage,  and  packing  it  be 
hind  our  saddles,  so  that  it  would  not  pound  on  a 
trot,  nor  rattle  on  a  gallop,  nor  quietly  slip  off  on 
a  walk,  so  that  the  matches  would  not  ignite  upon 
the  coffee-pot,  nor  the  bacon  flavor  the  sugar,  nor  the 
sardines  burst  among  the  crackers^  nor  the  candles 


THE   ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     211 

(for  exploring  the  cave)  be  mangled  by  the  knives 
and  spoons  (for  exploring  the  victuals),  was  not  ac 
complished  without  some  difficulty.  But  at  length 
all  was  adjusted  except  the  frying-pan,  which  would 
not  pack,  and  was  accepted  by  the  Veteran,  with,  some 
profane  grumbling,  as  a  very  unnecessary  evil,  which 
ought  by  rights  to  be  "slung  to  thunder,"  but  was 
unjustly  slung  to  him  instead.  That  frying-pan  owes 
its  safety  throughout  our  trip  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
borrowed,  and  must  be  returned.  The  Veteran  rode 
ahead,  brandishing  it  sullenly,  like  some  new  instru 
ment  of  warfare,  and  we  followed  in  single  file. 

It  was  a  ride  of  some  forty  miles  to  the  cave, 
through  the  bewildering  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the 
Cascade  Mountains.  We  galloped  over  high,  breezy 
table-lands;  we  looked  down  on  Josselin's  nestling 
ranch,  alive  with  cattle,  and  lovely  with  fruit-laden 
orchards;  we  followed  the  narrow  trail  along  the 
steep  mountain-side,  the  deep  misty  canon  of  the 
White  Salmon  below  us,  and  beyond  it  the  leafy 
mountains  rising,  ridge  above  ridge,  until  they  were 
veiled  in  the  smoke  of  burning  forests  far  away. 
We  threaded  our  way  through  thick  wildernesses  of 
undergrowth,  parting  the  branches  with  our  hands, 
and  scarcely  able  to  see  before  us  the  path,  well  worn 
for  the  feet  by  patient  pack-mules,  but  not  yet  quite 
ready  for  a  rider  taller  than  a  bundle  of  ice.  Anon 
we  emerged  into  beautiful  openings  carpeted  with 
bunch-grass  or  wild  oats,  and  dotted  with  stately 


212  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

oaks  and  pines,  the  ground  kept  smooth  and  lawny 
by  woodland  fires,  that  creep  silently  from  tuft  to 
tuft  of  grass  or  dry  leaves,  or  smolder  along  the 
course  of  fallen  trunks,  and  kiss  with  burning,  de 
ceitful  passion,  as  they  pass,  the  feet  of  the  giants  of 
the  forest,  that  disdain  to  notice  such  trifles  while 
they  can  look  abroad  upon  a  measureless  world  and 
sky.  But  now  and  then,  favored  by  drought  and 
wind,  the  creeping  fires  grow  bold,  and  spring  like 
tigers  upon  some  feeble,  dry  old  tree,  wrapping  it  in 
flame  from  root  to  crown ;  or  they  gnaw  at  a  sturdy 
trunk  till  its  strength  is  undermined,  and  then,  some 
fair,  quiet  day,  like  that  on  which  we  rode  through 
these  solitudes,  the  overstrained  column  gives  way 
suddenly,  and  —  with  a  groan,  a  rustle  of  unavailing 
resistance,  a  vain  wringing  of  leafy  hands,  and  wild 
tossing  of  rugged  arms,  a  crackling,  a  crashing,  a 
great  rush  and  sweep,  and  a  final  heavy  boom  as  of 
far  artillery,  waking  the  echoes  of  the  pitying  hills  — 
a  tree  falls !  Beautiful,  but  ah  !  how  sad,  were  the 
belief,  that  imprisoned  within  it  was  a  conscious 
Dryad  —  conscious,  but  not  immortal  —  to  feel  her 
life  carried  downward  in  that  mighty  fall,  into  the 
hopeless  abyss  of  annihilation ;  or,  sadder  yet,  to  lie 
thereafter  prone  in  the  forest,  and  wait  the  deliver 
ance  even  of  utter  destruction  at  the  merciful  hands 
of  Time  and  Decay! 

But  now  we  stand  upon  the  crest  of  a  high,  steep 
ridge,  down  which,  with  slow  and  careful  steps,  we 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     213 

must  lead  our  horses.  At  the  bottom  rushes  the 
swift  White  Salmon,  which  we  cross  upon  a  frail, 
swaying  bridge  to  climb  the  rocky  height  upon  the 
other  side,  and  mount  again  to  gallop  through  the 
woods.  West  of  the  river  the  surface  rises  in  irregu 
lar  terraces,  the  results  of  successive  basaltic  over 
flows.  The  rocky  ridges,  peeping  through  the  soil, 
cross  our  path  at  intervals ;  and  the  fine  dust  rising 
from  the  trail  beneath  our  horses'  feet  is  the  same  in 
character  as  that  which  daily  chases  the  wagons  on 
the  roads  over  the  vast  volcanic  highlands  between 
the  Columbia  and  the  Snake.  These  rugged  out 
crops  are  the  haunts  of  the  graceful  rattlesnake  and 
the  vivacious  yellow-jacket.  My  acquaintance  with 
one  individual  of  the  latter,  though  brief,  was  long 
enough  to  be  fatal  to  him,  and  memorable  to  me. 
Our  party  was  quietly  jogging  through  the  forest,  and 
my  eyes  were  fixed,  with  mild  lack  of  interest,  upon 
the  crupper  of  the  steady  beast  that  bore  the  tourist, 
when  suddenly  that  respectable  charger  stopped,  tried 
to  kick  with  all  his  feet  at  once,  reared,  plunged, 
bucked,  and  revolved  his  tail  with  furious  rapidity 
in  a  plane  at  right  angles  with  the  axis  of  his  body. 
A  moment  after,  my  own  steed  began  a  similar  series 
of  antics,  under  the  attacks  of  a  host  of  little  ban 
dits  in  golden  mail,  whose  retreat  we  had  invaded. 
I  laughed  aloud  at  the  novel  situation ;  but  the  insult 
was  terribly  avenged.  Straight  out  of  the  empty  air 
came  a  raging  cavalier  to  answer  the  challenge,  and 


214  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

we  fought  it  out  in  half  a  second.  He  insisted  on 
his  right  to  choose  ground,  weapons,  and  distance ;  to 
wit,  my  hand,  his  sting,  and  considerably  less  than 
nothing.  His  arrangements  were  so  well  made  that 
ho  was  well  "into"  me  before  I  got  "onto"  him. 
Result :  one  small  dead  yellow-jacket,  of  no  account 
whatever,  and  a  hand  and  arm  nearly  as  useless,  i 
<k  gained  flesh  "  for  an  hour  with  astonishing  speed  — 
losing  sight  of  knuckles  and  sinews;  and,  had  I  that 
day  presented  my  hand  to  an  aged,  purblind  father, 
he  would  have  had  cause  to  say,  "  The  voice  is  the 
voice  of  Jacob ;  but  the  hand  is  the  hand  of  the  boy 
in  Pickwick."  Some  good  whiskey  was  wasted  (as 
the  veteran  opined)  in  external  lotions  ;  but  for  a  day 
or  two  I  could  only  hang  up  the  useless  member,  and 
make  believe  I  had  lost  an  arm  at  Gettysburg,  and 
deserved  well  of  a  grateful  republic.  Since  that 
time,  I  have  had  opportunity  to  study  the  yellow- 
jacket  ;  and  I  know  that,  like  other  desperate  charac 
ters  who  hold  life  cheap,  he  is  to  be  respected  and 
feared.  He  who  would  merely  kill  you  may  be  a 
coward,  after  all,  and  you  need  not  leave  the  country 
on  his  account ;  but  he  who  hates  you,  and,  in  com 
parison  with  that  passion,  cares  not  whether  you  kill 
him  or  no,  is  dangerous.  Avoid  him  if  you  can,  treat 
him  kindly  when  you  may,  smash  him  when  you 
must ;  but  be  sure,  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  will 
first  put  dagger  into  you. 

We   strike  into  the  well-trodden   trail   of   the  In- 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     215 

dians,  and  frequently  meet  cavalcades  of  them  re 
turning,  heavy-laden,  from  the  great  huckleberry- 
patches,  where  they  collect  their  winter  store.  Others 
of  them  are  spearing  or  netting  salmon  at  the  cas 
cades  of  the  Columbia  and  Des  Chutes,  and,  with 
dried  fish  and  fruit  galore,  they  will  pass  a  merry 
winter  in  their  squalid  manner.  These  fragmentary 
tribes  of  the  Upper  Columbia  —  Klikatats,  and  what 
not — are  not  so  handsome  as  the  Nez  Perce's,  farther 
to  the  north-east;  but  there  are  now  and  then  fine 
faces  among  them,  —  laughing-eyed  young  squaws, 
old  men  with  judicial  brows,  straight,  strong  ath 
letes, —  and  the  children  all  promise  a  future  beauty 
which  privation,  hardship,  and  disease  too  surely 
erase  as  they  grow  up."  Was  there  a  time  when  the 
Red  Man  roamed,  &c.,  contented  and  happy,  valiant 
and  handsome,  the  perfect  and  worthy  child  of  Na 
ture  V  Show  us  the  relics  of  former  decent  habi 
tations,  and  good  victuals,  and  we  may,  perchance, 
answer  in  the  affirmative.  But  perpetually  living  out 
of  doors,  without  clothes  to  speak  of,  and  subsisting 
upon  food  in  precarious  supply  and  frequently  of 
inferior  quality,  is  not  calculated  to  develop  a  high 
type  of  physical,  any  more  than  of  mental  manhood. 
If  this  doctrine  be  held  to  cast  a  slur  upon  Adam, 
who  represents  to  us  the  state  of  savage  innocence  to 
which  some  people  think  we  ought  to  return,  I  can 
only  say  that  Adam's  career  was  a  disgraceful  one. 
He  had  a  better  chance  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  he 


216  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

ruined  himself  and  his  descendants  by  a  piece  of  real 
Indian  laziness  and  folly.  Lolling  about,  and  eating 
the  spontaneous  fruits  of  the  earth,  instead  of  tilling 
Ihe  garden  with  industry,  is  just  his  sin,  and  theirs. 
This  copper-colored  Adam,  who  was  placed  in  the 
Eden  of  the  New  World,  has  mismanaged  it  in  the 
same  way.  He  and  his  dusky  Eve  have  loitered  and 
idled  away  the  centuries,  living  carelessly  upon  the 
bounty  of  the  passing  time.  Verily,  by  reason  of 
family  resemblance  to  Adam  (and,  for  that  matter,  to 
Cain  also),  the  Indians  should  be  set  down  as  a  very 
early  offshoot  from  the  Eden  stock,  transplanted  be 
fore  the  parent  tree  had  begun  its  better  growth. 

"Too  much  preaching  and  philosophizing,"  says  the 
Tourist,  who  is  interested  in  .the  squaws  and  babies, 
and  not  at  all  in  Adam.  In  deference  to  his  wishes,  I 
subside  into  silence  and  a  trot.  These  Indians  all  talk 
Chinook,  which  is  the  most  fascinating  of  tongues. 
Being  the  product  of  a  deliberate  agreement  of  men, 
—  a  compromise,  it  is  said,  between  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company's  agents,  the  Jesuit  missionaries,  and  the 
once  powerful  Chinook  tribe,  —  it  is,  of  course,  supe 
rior  to  those  misshapen  dialects  that  spring  up  of 
themselves,  no  one  knows  how.  From  the  French, 
Spanish,  English,  Indian,  and  Hawaiian,  these  wise 
etymologists  took  what  was  best  in  each,  and  the 
result  comprises  melody,  force,  and  wondrous  laconic 
expressiveness.  It  is  none  of  your  tame  tongues,  that 
can  be  spoken  without  gesture.  Little  boys  declaim- 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     217 

ing  in  jargon  could  not  possibly  retain  in  nervous 
grasp  the  seams  of  their  trouser-legs.  One  of  the 
most  frequent  words  is  kahkwa,  meaning  "  thus,"  or 
"  like  this,"  and  invariably  accompanied  with  picto 
rial  illustration  of  movement  or  feature.  Let  us  ad 
dress  this  ancient  chieftain,  solemnly  riding  at  the 
head  of  a  long  train  of  "  cayuse  "  horses,  laden  with  his 
household,  his  "traps,"  and  his  huckleberries:  "  Kla- 
liowya  sikhs?"  ("  How  dost  thou,  venerable  sir?")  "kali 
mika  klatawa?"  ("and  whither  journeyest?  ")  "  Nika 
klatawa  kopa  Simcoe.  Mika  King  George,  lilikum,  Boston 
tilikum?"  ("I  travel  to  the  Simcoe  Reservation.  Are 
ye  of  King  George's  men,  that  is  to  say,  Englishmen, 
—  or  of  the  Boston  tribe,  that  is  to  say,  Yankees?  ") 
"  Nesika  Boston  tilikum.  King  George  cultus."  ("We 
are  Americans  all,  and  regard  King  George  with 
loathingandcontem.pt.")  "  Okook  mika  klootchman?" 
we  ask,  ("  Is  yon  beauteous  being  thy  bride  ?  ") 
"  Nawitka"  ("Yes.")  "Siah  kopa  lamonti?"  ("Is  it 
far  to  the  mountains?"  —  lamonti,  from  the  French 
la  montagne.)  "  Wake  siah ;  wayltut  hyas  kloshe,  okook 
sun ;  kali  cldlchil  kahkwa  tomolla  keekwillie  kahkwa ; 
tomolla  moosum  kopa  lamonti."  ("  Xot  far  ;  good 
road  to-day,  steep;  to-morrow,  low  and  level,  thus 
and  thus ;  to-morrow  night  a  camp  at  the  moun 
tain.")  A  very  commonplace  conversation,  but  full 
of  music,  as  you  will  discover,  if  you  read  it  aloud, 
Mademoiselle,  with  your  sweet  voice.  But  the  Vet 
eran  is  loping  far  ahead.  Jargon  has  no  charms  for 


218  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

him:  he  has  prattled  too  many  years  with  these  babes 
of  the  wood. 

It  is  thirty-five  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  White 
Salmon  to  the  ice-cave;  and  over  this  trail  by  which 
we  travel  the  ice  is  "  packed "  upon  the  backs  of 
mules  and  horses.  We  meet  upon  the  road  the 
leaded  train.  On  each  beast  two  sacks,  each  of 
which  contained,  at  starting,  a  block  of  ice  weighing, 
perhaps,  t\vo  hundred  pounds,  but  destined  to  melt 
away  to  half  its  original  dimensions  before  it  reaches 
the  steamboat-landing.  By  this  simple  device,  as 
the  toilsome  day  wears  on,  the  burden  diminishes, 
andj  while  it  grows  lighter,  distills  refreshing  cool 
ness  on  the  bearer.  The  dividends  of  the  business 
would  be  larger,  however,  as  the  Portlander  acutely 
remarks,  if  the  ice  were  better  packed  at  the  cave. 
But  this  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  mining  industry  of 
the  coast.  Happy  that  enterprise,  whereof  the  drip 
pings  only  equal  the  savings! 

The  sun  drops  into  the  hazy  west  as  we  ride  into 
a  forest  glade,  and  the  Veteran  exclaims,  "  Here  she 
is ! "  We  resolve  upon  an  immediate  preliminary 
examination  of  the  cave,  and  subsequent  supper  and 
sleep.  All  that  presented  itself  was  an  opening  in 
the  ground  a  dozen  feet  square,  formed  by  the  fall  of 
a  portion  of  the  roof.  We  had  passed,  within  a  few 
hours,  numerous  openings  of  this  kind,  the  mention 
of  which  I  have  omitted  for  artistic  reasons.  I  would 
not  fritter  away  the  reader's  interest  in  minor  caverns 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     219 

on  the  way.  The  examination  of  several,  however, 
qualifies  me  to  give  wise  explanation  of  their  nature. 

Thcso  caves  are  channels  in  the  basalt,  through 
which  the  latest  flows  of  melted  matter  passed.  The 
phenomenon  of  a  stream  of  lava  walled  and  roofed 
with  congealed  material  of  the  same  character  may 
be  observed  at  almost  any  active  volcano.  I  have 
seen  it  on  the  sides  of  Vesuvius  during  a  quiet  erup 
tion.  If  the  source  of  such  a  stream  is  suddenly 
choked,  the  lava  will  continue  to  flow  for  some  dis 
tance,  protected  from  rapid  cooling  by  the  crust 
above,  and  thus  a  portion  of  the  channel  will  be  left 
empty.  It  is  not  difficult  to  recognize  this  process  in 
the  basalt  caves  of  Washington  Territory.  Their 
walls  are  covered  with  the  traces  of  the  departing  fluid 
matter,  and  on  their  floors  may  be  found  masses  of  the 
congealed  lava,  still  fibrous  from  its  last  vain  effort 
to  follow  the  current.  It  looks,  my  young  friend, 
like  that  piece  of  abortive  molasses  candy  which 
you  threw  away  in  despair,  because  it  got  so  stiff 
and  would  not  "pull."  But  whence  the  ice  —  that 
strange  dweller  in  these  homes  of  fire?  That,  also, 
you  .shall  know. 

Only  a  few  of  these  caverns  contain  ice ;  and  they 
are  connected  at  both  ends  with  the  open  air,  by 
means  of  passages  formed  by  the  falling-ill  of  the 
crust,  or  the  flssuring  of  the  rocks  by  frost,  or,  finally, 
by  the  gradual  denudation  of  the  surface,  exposing 
the  ancient  channels  themselves.  The  intense  rei'ri- 


220  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

gerating  airs  of  winter  are  thus  allowed  free  passage. 
Alternately  with  these,  the  percolating  waters  of  the 
surface  find  their  way  into  the  caves  in  such  small 
quantities  that  they  freeze,  layer  upon  layer,  solid 
from  the  bottom ;  and  the  store  of  ice  thus  accumu 
lated  thaws  slowly  during  the  summer.  This  sum 
mer  thaw  is  retarded,  not  only  by  the  covering  which 
protects  the  ice  from  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun.  but 
also  by  the  fact  that  the  melting  ice  at  one  end  of 
the  cave,  through  which  the  summer  draught  enters, 
itself  refrigerates  the  air,  and  maintains  a  freezing- 
temperature  at  the  other  end.  We  noted  in  the 
main  ice-cave,  which  we  explored,  a  decided  differ 
ence  in  the  degrees  of  thaw  at  different  points. 
This  difference  was  due  to  the  cause  above  men 
tioned;  and  I  had  the  honor  to  determine  it  by  slid 
ing  unintentionally  down  a  glacial  stalagmite,  and 
observing  practically  the  degree  of  moisture  upon 
its  surface.  The  popular  report,  that,  as  fast  as  ice 
is  removed  from  the  cave,  it  continually  and  at  all 
seasons  forms  again,  is  without  foundation.  The 
amount  of  it  in  the  cave  is  not  very  great,  though  as 
yet  undetermined;  and  what  there  is,  perpetually, 
though  slowly,  wastes  away.  The  main  body  of  ice 
has  a  level  surface,  indicating  subterranean  drainage 
at  a  certain  point,  above  which  water  does  not  remain 
in  the  cave.  There  are  a  few  stalactites,  and  still 
more  numerous  stalagmites,  here  and  there.  One  of 
these  is  a  superb,  transparent  hillock,  rising  nearly 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     221 

to  the  roof,  and  christened  "the  Iceberg."  Here  I 
took  my  slide. 

The  entrance  used  by  the  ice-miners  is  the  opening 
in  the  roof  already  alluded  to.  At  this  point  the 
channel  turns  at  right  angles,  and  this  sharp  turn 
left  the  roof  with  less  support,  so  that  it  fell  in.  We 
followed  the  cave  more  than  two  hundred  feet  in  one 
direction  from  this  entrance,  and  perhaps  five  hun 
dred  in  the  other.  The  short  arm  of  it  contains 
most  of  the  ice,  and  the  long  arm  simply  reaches  out 
through  fallen  rocks  and  rubbish  to  daylight.  The 
terminus  of  the  cave  in  the  other  direction  was 
reached  by  the  Tourist,  who,  being  a  small  man  and 
an  ambitious,  hatcheted  his  way  over  the  iceberg,  and 
crawled  out  of  sight  into  a  fissure  beyond,  from  the 
depths  of  which  his  voice  was  presently  heard,  an 
nouncing  that  it  was  "  too  tight  a  fit"  for  him  to  go 
farther.  Tableau:  Tourist  in  the  hole,  triumphant; 
Writer  perched  on  the  iceberg,  curious,  but  cautious; 
portly  Portlander,  halfway  to  the  entrance,  resolving 
to  have  that  hole  made  bigger  when  the  hotel  is 
built;  and  Veteran  at  the  entrance,  not  caring  a 
straw. 

The  dimensions  of  the  cavern  are  not  large.  It 
does  not  exceed  thirty  feet  in  width,  nor  (at  present, 
\vith  the  bottom  full  of  ice  and  fallen  fragments  of 
basalt)  twenty  in  height.  Others  in  the  neighbor 
hood  are  larger,  but  do  not  contain  so  much  ice. 
From  the  nature  of  their  origin,  it  is  not  likely  that 


222  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

any  of  them  possess  extraordinary  dimensions,  ex 
cept  in  length.  In  this  direction  they  extend  for 
miles;  though  they  can  seldom  be  followed  under 
ground,  without  labor  in  removing  rocks,  &c.,  for 
more  than  a  few  hundred  feet.  It  was  in  the  present 
instance  the  indefatigable  Tourist,  who,  with  the  do 
cile  Writer  in  his  wake,  made  a  second  visit  to  Hades 
after  supper,  and,  entering  by  the  familiar  chasm, 
found  the  new  exit  far  to  the  south,  and  emerged 
thereby,  to  the  great  amazement  of  the  party  by  the 
camp-fire,  under  whose  unconscious  feet  they  had 
passed,  to  re-appear  in  an  unexpected  quarter. 

If  you  ever  visit  the  cave,  don't  let  the  Veteran 
persuade  you  that  it  is  necessary  to  ride  two  miles 
farther  to  camp,  on  account  of  water.  There  are 
pools  of  clear  ice-water  within  it;  and  behind  a  tall 
pine,  not  far  away,  you  will  find  two  wooden  troughs 
half  sunk  in  the  earth.  One  of  them  is  very  leaky; 
the  other  not  so  much.  Let  one  of  you  stand  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cave,  and  another  lower  from  above 
the  coffee-pot,  made  fast  to  a  lariat.  A  third  can 
run  to  and  fro  with  the  precious  liquid ;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  you  will  have  water  for  your  horses  in  the 
trough.  The  Veteran  will  sit  on  a  log,  scornfully  at 
first,  but  finally  snort  his  approbation.  At  least,  that 
was  the  order  of  operations  on  the  present  occasion. 

The  joys  of  camping  out  I  do  not  undertake  to 
describe.  In  this  effeminate  day,  when  people  sit  in 
their  parlors  and  read  about  things,  instead  of  doing 


THE  ICE-CAVES  OF  WASHINGTON.     223 

them,  thank  goodness  there  is  something  left  which 
can  not  be  put  into  words  !  There  is  a  period  of  per 
fect  peace,  when,  rising  at  midnight,  and  putting  a 
fresh  log  on  the  fire,  one  gazes  placidly  about  upon 
his  sleeping  comrades,  lights  a  pipe,  and  communes 
with  himself,  the  dancing  flame,  and  the  solemn, 
silent  forest.  Interjected  between  the  jollity  of  the 
evening  rneal  and  the  business-like  activity  of  break 
fast,  packing,  and  mounting,  this  midnight  pipe  of 
peace  is  like  a  whiff  from  another  w7orld.  Ho\v 
ridiculously  different  from  sitting  up  in  bed,  and 
lighting  the  gas ! 

Another  thing  which  I  omit  is  a  description  of  fair 
St.  Helen's  and  grand  Mount  Adams.  How  they  ac 
company  us  with  their  eternal  beauty  all  the  way ! 
How  delightful  is  the  change  from  the  gloomy  caves 
to  the  paradise  that  lies  just  beneath  the  edge  of  the 
melting  snows  on  Mount  Adams  !  There  innumerable 
varieties  of  flowers  bloom,  even  at  this  late  season, — 
the  whole  Flora  of  the  coast,  —  but  dw'arfed  by  their 
Alpine  locality  into  forms  of  infinite  delicacy,  and, 
hovering  among  them,  multitudes  of  humming-birds, 
who  have  gathered  here  to  find  again  the  blossoms  of 
June,  vanished  long  since  from  the  South.  Streams 
alive  with  trout  (liyiu  tenas  salmon)  and  white  goats 
on  the  snowy  fields  above,  to  tax  the  skill  and  daring 
of  the  more  ambitious  sportsman  —  I  could  give  you 
a  fine  description  of  all  these  things;  but  T  must  stop 
here.  And  morally  it  is  quite  as  well,  for  the  smoke 


224 


CAMP  AND   CABIN. 


in  the  air  prevented  us  from  seeing  Adams,  or  visit 
ing  the  Paradise  of  Humming-birds  —  but  which  is, 
nevertheless,  there ;  and  so  you  will  find  out,  when, 
next  July,  you  add  to  your  summer  trip  along  the 
grand  Columbia  a  charming  three-days'  excursion  to 
the  region  I  have  faintly  depicted. 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.1 


HE  ascent  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  from  the 
east  begins  so  far  away,  that  it  is  useless  to 
include  the  whole  of  it  in  this  brief  sketch. 
Even  at  Omaha,  one  is  nine  hundred  and 
sixty-six  feet  above  sea-level ;  and,  in  traveling  west 
ward  to  Cheyenne,  one  trundles  smoothly  up  hill, 
until,  by  imperceptible  degrees,  the  altitude  of  six 
thousand  and  forty-one  feet  has  been  attained.  The 
bugbear  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  way  it 
vanishes  when  assailed,  are  a  perpetual  joke  on  man 
kind.  One  is  amused,  in  the  midst  of  the  monoto 
nous  iteration  of  buffalo- grass  and  sky,  by  the  re 
currence  of  the  reflection  that  this  is  the  forbidden 
barrier  between  East  and  West,  —  about  as  much  of 
a  barrier  as  the  hole  in  the  fence  through  which  one 
used,  in  comparative  infancy,  to  kiss  the  little  girl 
that  lived  next  door,  —  a  positive  opportunity,  an  in 
vitation,  not  a  hindrance. 

But  if  you  think,  fair  reader,  that  the  rest  of  the 
fence  is  like  this  easy  gap  in  it,  just  come  along  with 


April,  1871. 


225 


22G  CAMP  AND  CA1UN. 

me,  and  climb  one  of  the  pickets.  We  are  going, 
two  or  three  of  us,  to  ascend  Gray's  Peak. 

From  Cheyenne  to  Denver  is  a  ride  over  the  Plains 
of  about  a  hundred  and  ten  miles.  The  new  railroad 
is  excellently  built  and  stocked.  The  view  from  the 
car-window  is  enlivened  by  glimpses  of  prairie-dogs 
erect  on  stern  at  the  doors  of  their  burrows,  and  now 
and  then  an  owl  blinking  in  the  sun.  The  dogs  and 
owls  do  live  together  —  in  the  proportion  of  a  great 
many  dogs  to  one  owl :  wisdom  is  in  the  minority  in 
this  world.  But  don't  you  believe  that  story  about 
the  rattlesnakes  being  members  of  the  same  happy 
families.  As  far  as  I  can  find  out,  the  snakes  inhabit 
the  holes,  as  the  first  of  them  may  have  lived  in  Eden, 
after  the  ejection  of  the  original  tenants.  Believe 
what  good  you  choose  about  all  other  branches  of 
creation,  but  never  you  1st  up  on  snakes  :  that  way 
lies  heresy. 

There  are  antelopes  too,  —  charming  compounds  of 
timidity  and  curiosity,  —  their  slender  legs  carrying 
them  swiftly  away  as  the  train  approaches,  and  their 
slender  noses,  with  skillful  leverage,  whirling  them 
about  to  sniff  and  stare.  But  we  do  not  need  these 
petty  distractions;  for,  lo  ! — vision  denied  till  now 
through  all  the  weary  way  —  the  rreat  mountains 
themselves  now  loom  up,  silent  and  majestic  on  the 
\vest,  and  accompany  us,  hour  after  hour,  with  their 
shining  crests,  and  purple  canons,  and  floating  wreaths 
of  cloud.  The  sun  sets  behind  them,  and  their  glo- 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       227 

ries  vanish  in  a  cold,  gray  monotone.  You  should  see 
them  at  sunrise,  if  you  would  learn  their  infinite  beau 
ty.  Then  the  —  but  this  won't  do :  we  have  got  to 
climb  Gray's  Peak,  and  we  are  using  up  all  the  adjec 
tives  beforehand.  That's  Gray's  Peak  yonder ;  and 
that  other,  close  by,  is  Irwin's.  Away  to  the  north  is 
Long's;  and  terminating  our  view  of  the  range  to 
the  south  is  Pike's,  grandest  in  outline  of  them  all. 
This  view  of  two  hundred  miles  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  in  one  picture,  from  the  Plains  by  Denver,  is 
not  surpassed  in  the  wrorld.  The  Alps  seen  from  the 
top  of  Milan  Cathedral  are  lovely,  but  too  faint  and 
far.  There  is  a  place  on  the  old  road  from  Dalles 
City  to  Canon  City  in  Oregon,  where  a  similar  pano 
ramic  view  of  the  Cascade  Range  may  be  obtained, 
including  Shasta,  Jefferson,  The  Sisters,  Hood,  St. 
Helena,  Adams,  and  even  (to  a  good  eye,  favored  with 
a  clear  day,  a  first-rate  glass,  and  a  fine  imagination) 
Baker,  and  Rainier.  That  view  is  equal  to  this  ;  but 
it  is  a  great  deal  harder  to  reach.  So,  considering  all 
things,  we  may  decide  that  the  display  of  the  moun 
tains  before  Denver  is  the  finest  thing  of  the  kind 
ever  provided  by  Nature,  and  developed  by  railroads. 
This  thrifty  settlement,  by  the  way,  is  the  new  col 
ony  of  Greeley.  Two  hundred  houses  already,  and 
not  a  solitary  one  last  spring.  The  inhabitants  all 
have  more  or  less  capital,  and  so  they  will  escape  the 
poverty-stricken  children  of  most  pioneer  settlements. 
There  are  only  one  or  two  Democrats  in  town,  —  not 


228  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

enough  to  keep  the  Republican  party  from  splitting. 
And  there  are  no  liquor-stores  at  all,  —  a  miracle  in 
these  parts.  Is  it  partially  accounted  for  by  the  very 
near  neighborhood  of  Evans  (only  a  couple  of  miles 
away),  formerly  a  temporary  terminus  of  the  railroad, 
and  a  very  busy  place,  where  now  there  is  scarcely  any 
thing  left  but  saloons  and  bars?  Let  us  hope  that  the 
Greeleyites  will  let  Evans  alone. 

But  here  we  are  at  Denver,  a  pretty  town,  more 
substantially  built  than  any  other  of  the  interior,  not 
even  excepting  Salt  Lake.  Denver  has  three  rail 
roads  already,  —  the  Denver  Pacific  to  Cheyenne/  the 
Kansas  Pacific  to  Kansas  City  and  St.  Louis,  and  the 
Colorado  Pacific  to  Golden  City,  —  all  shortened,  to 
save  the  valuable  time  of  hotel  clerks  and  runners, 
to  the  D.  P.,  the  K.  P.,  and  the  C.  P.  Remember, 
moreover,  that,  if  you  take  the  D.  P.,  you  must  be 
going  to  Cheyenne  to  connect  with  the  U.  P. :  so  mind 
your  P's  and  cues,  or  you'll  lose  your  baggage. 

The  Colorado  Pacific,  with  sublime  audacity,  strikes 
straight  at  the  heart  of  the  mountains  What  it  has 
to  do  with  the  ocean  whence  it  borrows  half  its  name, 
can  only  be  seen  by  continuing  the  line  of  the  road 
through  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  highest  ranges  in  the 
country.  This  process  is  easy  on  a  map  with  a  lead- 
pencil  ;  but  drawing  a  line  is  not  drawing  a  train. 
However,  there  is  inspiration  in  names,  and  nobody 
knows  what  may  happen.  A  few  years  ago  any  Paci 
fic  railroad  was  chimerical :  a  few  years  hence  all  of 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       229 

them  may  be  achieved  and  trite,  and  we  may  be 
laughing  at  the  Kamtschatka  Baltic,  or  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  Mediterranean,  or  the  Patagonia  Arctic. 

Having  had  our  joke,  let  us  take  our  tickets.  Fif 
teen  miles,  or  thereabout,  is  the  distance  to  Golden 
City,  the  present  terminus  of  the  railroad.  The  route 
winds  among  grassy  foothills  capped  with  basalt,  that 
seem  to  be  a  compromise  between  rugged  mountain 
and  rolling  plain.  Golden  is  nestled  among  them, — 
a  thriving,  ambitious  town,  endowed  with  fire-clay, 
coal-mines,  and  a  fine  seminary.  A  territorial  school 
of  mines  is  about  to  be  established  here;  possibly  the 
students  will  find  the  locality  more  agreeable,  but 
less  profitable,  than  Georgetown  or  Central,  where  the 
arts  of  mining  and  metallurgy  are  extensively  illus 
trated  in  practice. 

Not  desiring  to  visit  Central  at  present,  we  will 
cross  over  from  Golden  to  the  main  stage-road  for 
Georgetown.  The  excellent  coaches  of  the  Colorado 
Stage  Company  bear  us  to  Idaho  City,  and  hence  up 
the  long,  magnificent  Virginia  Canon  to  Georgetown. 

Idaho  (let  us  drop  the  "  City  :  "  most  of  these  moun 
tain  towns  were  founded  for  metropolitan  purposes, 
and  their  high-sounding  titles  now  have  a  ring  of  dis 
appointment;  so  that  the  inhabitants  save  themselves 
both  time  and  mortification  by  dropping  the  sugges 
tive  appendix:  hence  Denver,  Golden,  Central,  Vir 
ginia,  Ruby,  Empire,  Diamond,  Star,  and  what  not; 
hence,  also,  Idaho)  is  picturesquely  situated  at  the 


230  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

meeting  of  two  or  three  canons,  the  main  one  being 
that  of  Clear  Creek.  Certain  hot-springs  give  the 
town  a  permanent  importance  as  a  watering-place : 
and  numerous  mines  in  the  neigborhood  bestow  upon 
it  the  flickering  reflections  of  their  fluctuating  pros 
perity.  The  ten  miles  of 'Clear  Creek  Canon  that  lie 
between  this  and  Georgetown  are  full  of  fine  rock 
scenery,  not  unlike  portions  of  the  Via  Mala  in  Switz 
erland,  though  here  the  snowy  peaks  are  not  in  view. 
People  say,  moreover,  that  the  legendary  and  his 
toric  charms  which  add  so  much  to  the  attractions  of 
Nature  in  foreign  lands  are  wanting  in  our  own;  but 
that  is  a  mistake.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  talk  to  the 
driver.  The  guide  told  you,  somewhere  in  the  Alps, 
did  he?  of  a  peasant  who  found  the  treasures  of  the 
•  mountain-elves,  and  when  he  \vent  to  look  for  them 
again,  with  a  party  of  friends  to  carry  them  away, 
lo !  there  was  nothing  but  barren  rock.  Bless  you, 
that  happens  here  every  day !  Up  yonder,  a  thou 
sand  feet  over  your  head,  is  a  white  rock.  That  is 
the  outcrop  of  the  Salamander  Ledge.  The  man 
that  owned  it  knew7  it  was  the  mother-lode  of  the 
Kocky Mountains;  the  geologist  who  examined  it  was 
sure  it  was  the  real  "igneous  fatuous  "  rock,  and  no 
mistake;  and  the  company  that  bought  it  proposed 
to  pay  the  national  debt,  after  satiating  their  stock 
holders.  But  there  never  Vas  a  pound  of  ore  discov 
ered  in  it,  except  the  specimens  that  went  East,  and 
there  is  a  touch  of  the  legendary  in  them  even.  Beat 
that  story  in  the  Alps,  if  you  can. 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.      231 

They  talk,  too,  about  ruined  castles,  stately  old 
rookery  on  a  hill,  desolate  cloister  in  the  valley, 
knight  went  to  Palestine  in  olden  days,  villain  way 
laid  knight,  began  suit  to  lady,  rascally  priest  mixed 
up  in  the  business,  and  sp  on.  Not  a  bit  more  pa 
thetic  than  the  history  of  yonder  magnificent  pile,  the 
Megatherium  Mill,  with  its  pristine  splendor,  knights 
and  ladies  (pardon  me,  Madam,  for  alluding  to  them), 
its  suits  and  battles,  its  final  abandonment  and  pres 
ent  desolation.  The  lively  dwelling-house  beyond  is 
a  monastery  now,  and  a  monk  in  red  flannel  shirt  and 
long  beard  smokes  a  pipe  there. 

Ruined  aqueducts  of  the  Campagna?  We  can 
match  them  too.  Look  at  these  flumes  and  ditches, 
and  grim,  toothless  wheels,  sported  by  the  current 
they  once  controlled!  See  the  heaps  of  boulders, 
every  one  of  which  has  been  lifted  by  zealous  hands, 
if  perchance  the  philosopher's  stone  might  lie  beneath. 
Yes,  the  romance  of  the  past  is  here.  These  wild 
scenes  are  clothed,  as  truly  as  those  of  the  elder  world, 
with  the  ambitions,  hopes,  disappointments,  and  tra 
gedies  of  the  human  heart. 

But  all  around  us  here  is  the  life  and  busy  indus 
try  of  the  present.  Fortunes  are  carved  out  of  these 
rocks  ;  and  Clear  Creek  Canon  discharges  to  the  wide 
plains  andHhe  wider  world^  its  steady  stream  of  wealth. 
Of  course,  I  don't  mean  to  say  this  is  romantic.  I 
throw  in  the  remark  merely  for  the  information  of 
capitalists,  and  to  satisfy  my  conscience,  which  might 


CAMP  AND   CABJN. 

otherwise  be  quickened  unpleasantly  by  some  justice- 
loving  citizen  of  Colorado,  who  would  fire  a  revolver 
or  a  leading  article  at  me  to  remind  me  that  the  terri 
tory  is  by  no  means  dead  yet. 

Here  is  Georgetown,  imbosomed  in  the  mountains 
which  overshadow  it  on  every  side,  and  leave  it  only 
space  enough  to  be  comfortable  and  beautiful.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  lovely  site,  and  doubly  so  by  comparison 
with  the  awkwardness  of  Central,  squeezed  into  its 
three  or  four  precipitous  canons  as  one  rubs  putty  in 
a  crack.  Georgetown  possesses,  however,  what  Cen 
tral  doesn't  even  claim,  —  a  good  hotel.  On  the  other 
hand,  —  let  us  be  just,  and  then  fear  not,  — the  mines 
about  Central  produce  a  great  deal  more  money  at 
this  time  ;  the  achievements  of  the  districts  around 
Georgetown  being  but  respectable  at  present,  and 
magnificent  in  future. 

Perhaps  you  think  we  are  coming  but  slowly  to 
Gray's  Peak.  Not  so.  While  I  have  beguiled  the 
way  with  gossip,  we  have  steadily  ascended,  until  now 
we  are  some  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  You 
wouldn't  have  a  man  begin  to  climb  a  mountain  at 
nine  thousand  feet,  and  call  that  the  outset  ?  lleflect, 
moreover,  that  I  had  a  clear  right  to  begin  at  the  At 
lantic  Ocean.  Where  should  we  be  now  in  that  case? 
Certainly  not  out  of  the  clutches  of  Chica^%.  Sleep 
in  peace  this  night :  to-morrow's  sunrise  will  see  us 
far  on  our  way. 

u  To-morrow's  sunrise"  is  a  phrase  carefully  chosen ; 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       233 

for  the  sun  makes  no  haste  to  rise  in  these  deep  canons. 
We  may  even,  on  our  winding  route,  enjoy  half  a 
dozen  sunrises,  plunging  again,  after  each  one,  into 
the  chill  shadows  of  last  night.  But  gloriously  tipped 
with  gold  are  the  crest-ridges,  and  steadily  the  luster 
crawls  down  the  steep  rock-faces,  until  at  last  the 
glowing  day  is  everywhere,  save  in  those  profound 
coverts  where  the  cold,  clear  springs  are  hidden  under 
tufted  mosses  and  closely-twined  arms  of  Dryads,  and 
in  the  subterranean  recesses  of  shaft,  or  tunnel,  or 
stope,  where  the  swart  miner  swings  the  sledge  in  per 
petual  midnight. 

Mounted  on  the  active,  sure-footed  horses  of  this 
region  (which  have  better  endurance  than  the  coursers 
of  the  plains,  as  the  Denver  boys  found  out  when 
they  bet  their  money  at  the  Georgetown  races),  we 
follow  the  wagon-road  up  the  canon  of  the  north  fork 
of  the  middle  branch,  or  the  middle  fork  of  the  south 
branch,  — or  something  to  that  effect,  — of  South  Clear 
Creek.  The  stream  was  once  well  named.  They  say 
one  could  count  the  trout  in  its  waters  —  only  they 
were  too  many  to  be  counted.  .But  sluices  and  tail 
ings  have  long  ago  corrupted  its  lower  course.  Only 
up  here  towards  its  source  is  it  still  worthy,  in  some 
degree,  of  its  pretty  title.  The  turnpike  follows  it 
patiently,  under  many  difficulties,  now  clinging  along 
a  steep  bluff  far  above  it,  now  crossing  it  by  a  rustic 
bridge,  now  peacefully  enjoying  for  a  season  its  close 
company  through  a  bit  of  fertile  or  gravelly  bottom- 


234  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

land.  The  mountains  crowd  us  all  they  can,  and 
now  and  then  they  seem  to  have  cornered  us  entirely. 
Just  above  Georgetown  there  is  apparently  no  way 
out  of  the  cul-de-sac  into  which  they  have  driven  our 
brave  little  creek  ;  but  a  way  there  is,  and  through  it 
Clear  Creek  leaps  into  Georgetown.  Of  course  the 
gap  is  called  the  Devil's  Gate,  or  something  similarly 
diabolical.  It  is  the  Western  way  to  clap  the  infer- 
nalest  names  on  the  heavenliest  places,  flying,  in  such 
cases  as  this,  moreover,  in  the  face  of  Scripture,  which 
informs  us  that  the  Devil's  gate  is  not  narrow,  but 
broad  and  easy. 

The  mountain-sides  are  still  covered  with  timber, 
though  sadly  scarred  by  great  fires  which  the  reck 
lessness  of  the  inhabitants  occasions  or  permits.  The 
straight,  dead  pines,  first  charred  and  afterwards 
bleached,  bristle  like  gray  porcupine-quills  on  the 
back  of  the  range.  In  the  more  accessible  places 
wood-cutters  are  at  work,  felling  the  dry  timber,  and 
shooting  it  down  the  steep  precipices  to  the  valley. 
All  along  the  base  of  the  mountains  are  the  mouths 
of  inchoate  tunnels,  reminding  us  of  those  curious 
organisms  that  begin  with  a  mouth  only,  and  develop 
their  bowels  afterward.  High  above,  sometimes  fif 
teen  hundred  feet  over  the  stream,  are  dumps  and 
windlasses,  showing  where  the  silver-veins  have  been 
found.  So  many  promising  veins  have  been  discov 
ered  on  these  bare  summits,  that  it  is  almost  a  maxim 
with  some  of  the  prospectors  that,  — 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       235 

"  A  good  silver-mine 
Is  above  timber-line 
Ten  times  out  of  nine." 

But  let  us  drop  the  subject.     That  way  lies  science. 

At  Brownsville,  three  miles  distant  from  George 
town,  are  the  Brown  and  Terrible  Mines,  and  the 
smelting-works  of  the  former  company.  The  mines 
are  situated  up  a  steep,  rocky  gulch,  above  the  Brown 
works,  the  Brown  Mine  being  uppermost,  and  the 
Terrible  between.  The  ore  extracted  from  the  Brown 
is  brought  down  on  an  aerial  tramway,  the  rails  of 
which  are  tightly-stretched  wire-cables  ;  and  in  this 
way  the  Brown  transportation  goes  on  through  the 
air,  over  the  heads  of  the  Terrible  people.  The 
smoke  and  fumes  from  the  smelting-works  float  up 
the  canon  for  a  long  distance,  and  supply  the  cloud 
hitherto  lacking  in  this  morning's  spotless  sky. 

Three  miles  farther,  through  the  constantly  nar 
rowing  and  rising  valley,  bring  us  to  the  settlement 
and  the  handsome  mill  of  the  Baker  Company.  It  is 
this  company  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  the  good 
road  we  have  traveled  thus  far :  and  indeed  the  bless 
ing  is  not  yet  exhausted;  for  the  company's  mine 
is  not  far  from  the  summit  of  Gray's  Peak,  and  the 
company's  teams  have  made  a  capital  wagon-road  up 
to  the  mines. 

At  this  point  w7e  leave  Clear  Creek,  and  follow  up 
a  tributary  known  as  Kelso.  The  road  now  mounts 
more  steeply.  The  pines  and  quaking-asps,  dwarfed 


236  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

somewhat  in  stature,  come  close  to  us  as  we  ride,  as 
though  they  were  lonesome,  and  huddled  along  the 
road  to  catch  a  social  glance  or  word  from  a  passing 
traveler.  The  birds  and  squirrels,  so  plenty  a  mile 
below,  suddenly  cease  to  be  seen  or  heard.  The  pecul 
iar  stillness  of  the  upper  air  makes  itself  felt.  Pres 
ently  we  have  emerged  from  the  last  belt  of  timber, 
and  are  alone  with  heaven. 

No,  not  yet!  Hundreds  of  feet  still  above  us,  on 
the  side  of  Kelso  Mountain,  are  the  buildings  of  the 
Baker  Mine.  A  shanty  may  mean  any  thing ;  but  a 
house  with  a  chimney  is  a  sign  of  permanent  habita 
tion.  At  that  warning  finger,  Solitude  gets  up  and 
goes.  Nevertheless,  barring  the  Baker  Mine,  the 
scene  is  grand  as  Nature  before  the  age  of  man.  On 
the  right,  Kelso  Mountain  turns  to  us  a  rounded,  con 
ical  form,  grass-clad.  On  the  left,  McClellan  Moun 
tain  presents  a  circling  ridge ;  the  face  turned  toward 
us  being  as  steep  and  rugged  as  it  can  be,  and  not  fall 
over.  Whoever  has  ascended  Vesuvius,  and  remem 
bers  how  the  central  cone  arises  from  within  the  sur 
rounding  precipices  of  a  former  crater,  will  compre 
hend  the  general  position  of  the  parts  of  this  wild 
scene.  But  these  rocks  are  not  volcanic.  The  farther 
side  of  McClellan  is  sloping,  like  this  side  of  Kelso  ; 
and  the  farther  side  of  Kelso  is  rough  and  perpendicu 
lar,  like  this  side  of  McClellan  ;  and  the  ridge  of  Mc 
Clellan  does  not  completely  surround  Kelso,  but  at  its 
farther  end  soars  up  into  two  peaks,  and  there  stops. 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       237 

These  two  peaks  are  Gray's  and  Irwin's;  and,  as  we 
journey,  they  come  into  full  near  view  from  behind  the 
head  of  Kelso. 

I  am  glad  enough  that  the  scene  is  not  volcanic. 
This  gray  granite,  or  gneiss,  has  far  greater  variety 
and  beauty  of  form,  and  gives  us  delicate  shadows. 
Though  it  may  lack  the  imperial  purples  of  trachytes 
and  tufas  seen  in  the  distance,  it  does  not  offer  us 
their  horrid  blackness  seen  near  by.  Besides,  there 
are  dainty  grasses  and  blossoms  that  sometimes  hang 
by  one  hand  from  clefts  in  the  granite,  and  swing  in 
the  wind.  Yosemite,  Smoky  Valley,  and  Gray's  Peak, 
—  let  the  lava  people,  with  their  Snake  Caiions,  Sho- 
shone  Falls,  and  gloomy  Dalles,  match  this  granite 
trio  if  they  can  ! 

It  is  lucky  that  our  path  doesn't  lie  up  that  face  of 
McClellan  Mountain.  Lie?  It  couldn't :  it  would 
have  to  stand.  No  mortal  could  climb  there  without 
wings.  I?ut  what  is  that  a  thousand  feet  up  the  clilf  ? 
A  house  —  ye  gods!  a  boarding-house!  The  glass 
shows  us  fragments  of  a  zigzag  trail,  interspersed 
with  ladders  where  the  precipices  are  otherwise  im 
passable.  Now  we  see,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliif,  another 
house,  and  between  the  two,  fine  lines,  like  a  spider's 
web,  stretched  through  a  thousand  feet  of  air.  That 
is  the  somewhat  celebrated  Stevens  Mine.  The  men, 
lumber,  provisions,  &c.,  are  all  carried  up,  and  the 
ore  is  all  brought  down,  by  means  of  one  of  the  in 
genious  wire- tramways  now  becoming  common  in 


238  CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

Colorado.  How  the  mine  was  ever  discovered,  I  can 
not  say  :  somebody  must  have  "  lit  on  it." 

The  summit  is  close  before  us  now,  glistening  with 
patches  of  snow.  On  the  neck  between  Gray  and 
Irwin,  there  is  a  regular  turnover  collar  of  a  drift. 
It  looks  small  enough  here  ;  but  you  couldn't  pass  it 
without  a  twenty-foot  tunnel  in  the  snow.  There's 
not  much  life  up  here,  —  scarcely  even  a  mountain- 
goat  or  a  snow-quail  for  a  six-hundred-dollar  break 
fast.  Bill,  here,  will  tell  you  that  story:  he  hasn't 
opened  his  mouth  the  whole  way. 

"  Well,  'tain't  much  of  a  story ;  but  it  gives  the 
Georgetown  boys  the  deadwood  on  Dick  Irwin  and 
me,  and  they  hain't  let  up  on  us  yet,  nor  wont  s'long's 
they  kin  git  anybody  to  swop  lies  with  'em.  How 
ever,  this  yer's  no  lie.  Ye  see  Dick  and  me  —  that 
thar  mountain  was  named  after  Dick  ;  that  is  to  say, 
these  two  was  ary  one  Irwin's  Peak,  and  whichary 
wasn't  Irwin's  was  Gray's,  and  nobody  knov?ed.  Gray, 
he  was  a  great  weed-sharp  down  East  somewhar,  and 
he  gin  so  many  names  to  this  yer  bunch-grass  and 
stuff,  that  they  thought  they'd  gin  his  name  to  the 
highest  peak,  though  I  don't  see  it  myself.  So  these 
scientific  fellers  kept  a-comin'  up  here,  and  a-meas- 
urin',  and  they  couldn't  agree.  Some  on  'em  biled 
water  on  the  top,  and  some  on  'em  friz  mercury ;  but 
they  couldn't  agree.  So  at  last  a  lot  on  'em  fresh 
from  college  camped  out  all  night  right  on  the  top 
of  Gray's,  and  took  observations,  you  bet !  every  five 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       239 

minutes  ;  and  when  they  come  down  there  wasn't  no 
manner  of  doubt  in  their  minds  but  what  Gray's  was 
the  highest  peak  in  the  whole  fandango.  So  Dick  he 
come  down  like  a  gentleman,  and  took  the  next  best 
himself.  Well,  Dick  and  me  was  out  huntin',  and 
looking  up  blossom-quartz  around  yeiy  and  we  raised 
one  of  these  yer  white  snow-quails,  and  I  found  the 
nest  with  six  eggs  into  it.  So  says  I  to  Dick, '  You  jest 
hold  on,  an'  we'll  have  a  reg'lar  Delmonico  sockdolo- 
ger.'  And  we  fried  them  there  eggs,  and  eat  'em  ;  and 
Dick  said,  Bust  his  crust,  if  he'd  ever  had  a  break 
fast  set  so  comfortable-like  as  that  one  did.  *  All  we 
want,'  says  Dick,  '  is  a  drop  of  whisky  to  wash  it  down.' 
So  we  went  down  to  Bakerville,  and  was  a-settin'  round 
in  the  bar-room  as  sociable  as  you  please,  spittin'  on 
the  stove,  when  Dick  happened  to  mention  them  snowr- 
quails'  eggs;  and  a  long,  slab-sided,  scientific  son  of 
a  gun,  with  spectacles,  riz  up  like  a  derrick,  and  says 
he,  l  My  friend,  the  Smithsonian  Institution  has  of 
fered  a  reward  of  one  hundred  dollars  for  a  single 
specimen  of  the  snow-quail's  egg.'  Most  anybody 
would  V  stopped  to  swear,  and  have  a  drink  on  that ; 
but  it  never  was  nothin'  but  an  idee  and  a  start  with 
Dick  Irwin.  When  he  thought  of  a  thing,  he  was 
goin'  to  do  it  sure  ;  and  this  time  he  made  just  two 
jumps  out  of  doors,  and  moseyed  up  the  mountain, 
with  his  rifle.  Afore  we  saw  him  agin,  he  had  been 
away  down  on  the  Grand,  and  all  through  the  Snowy 
and  the  Wasatch.  Then  we  heerd  on  him  in  the 


240  CAMP  AND  CABIN. 

Middle  Park;  and  one  day  he  walked  over  the  range, 
and  into  the  bar-room  at  Bakerville,  as  if  nothin'  had 
happened;  and  says  he,  'Boys,  that  six-hundred-dol 
lar  breakfast  has  used  up  the  last  snow-quail's  egg  in 
the  whole  dam  Rockies.  What'41  ye  take?  ' 

Not  so  well  told,  Bill,  as  when  first  you  reeled  it  off 
to  me  under  the  shadow  of  McClellan.  However, 
this  expurgated  version,  though  not  so  good  for  your 
reputation  as  a  raconteur,  is  doubtless  better  for  your 
soul. 

We  have  reclined  on  a  sunny  bit  of  grass,  letting 
our  horses  nibble  their  luncheon  while  we  disposed 
of  our  own,  Bill's  employment  as  a  story-teller  serv 
ing  to  keep  him  down  to  a  fair  share  of  the  sand 
wiches  and  sardines.  Now  let  us  scale  the  final  peak. 
It  looks  but  a -short  distance,  yet  it  is  a  good  hour's 
work.  You  need  not  walk,  however  :  the  horses  are 
used  to  it. 

The  peak  seems  to  be  formed  of  loose  fragments 
of  rock,  piled  up  in  confusion  How  did  they  get 
here?  They  didn't  get  here:  they  were  here  always. 
This  heap  of  stones  is  the  effect  of  ages  of  frost  and 
snow  and  wind  upon  the  once  solid  rock.  At  our 
left,  as  we  ascend,  stands  a  solitary  crag,  which  has 
not  yet  quite  yielded,  nor  toppled  into  ruins,  but  is 
seamed  and  cracked  through  and  through. 

No  extensive  prospect  from  here.  It  is  one  of  the 
advantages  of  this  route,  that  we  mount  gradually, 
and  without  great  trouble,  yet  do  not  have  the  final 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GEAY'S  PEAK.       241 

glory  of  the  view  from  the  summit  wasted  upon  us 
in  driblets  by  the  way.  McClellan  and  Gray  and 
Irwin  still  rise  solidly  between  us  and  the  land  of 
promise,  into  which  we  shall  presently  gaze.  There 
are  snow-drifts  here  and  there,  but  not  enough  to 
trouble  us.  The  trail  goes  back  and  forward,  wind 
ing  sharply  among  the  rocks.  We  have  not  yet  risen 
above  all  life.  There  are  tracks  of  light-footed  ani 
mals  in  the  snow  ;  and  yonder,  as  I  live!  there  is  one 
more  mine.  Yes,  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Lode  sits 
astride  the  backbone  of  the  continent;  and  the  en 
thusiastic  discoverer,  sure  of  having  found  at  last  the 
argentiferous  heart  of  the  continent,  has  put  down 
a  shaft  exactly  on  the  divide.  Pity  that  a  location 
so  admirable  for  drainage  and  ventilation  should  have 
to  be  abandoned  "  for  lack  of  capital  " !  We  must  wait 
for  the  C.  P.  to  come  this  way. 

But,  the  last  turn  and  the  last  snowdrift  being 
passed,  we  stand  at  last  on  the  summit  of  Gray's  Peak. 
It  is  a  place  for  deep  breaths  of  delight  and  admira 
tion,  but  not  for  words,  at  least  not  until,  the  first 
ecstasy  of  silence  being  passed,  the  inevitable  member 
of  the  party  who  carries  the  opera-glass,  and  who 
knows  all  the  geography  of  the  scene,  begins  to  dis 
pense  his  information.  Never  mind  him.  He  is  a 
good  fellow ;  but  he  has  been  here  before,  and  you 
have  not.  Hear  what  he  has  to  say,  and  then  sit  on  a 
rock  beyond  ear-shot,  and  look  for  yourself. 

Southward,  the  crowding  summits   of   the  range, 


CAMP  AND   CABIN. 

intersected  by  the  deep  canons  of  the  Platte  and  its 
tributaries,  and,  beyond  all,  Pike's  Peak,  superb  in 
the  sun. 

Westward,  sweeping  the  circle  from  the  south,  the 
South  and  Middle  Parks,  pieces  of  the  plains,  caught 
and  half-lifted  by  the  mountains,  in  the  midst  of 
which  their  broad,  fair  surfaces  lie  imbosomed ;  the 
dark,  tiny  caiions  of  the  Blue  and  other  streams,  that 
hasten  to  join  the  great  south-western  system  of. 
waters.  One  of  them  is  full  of  clinging  smoke ;  the 
woods  are  a-fire  for  miles.  Far  beyond  the  Parks  is 
the  Snowy  Range,  and  the  lofty  peak  of  Mount  Lin 
coln.  Down  in  this  labyrinth  of  glades,  cliffs,  and 
gorges,  emerald  lakes  and  rushing  streams,  there  are 
human  beings  living  and  laboring,  digging  and  slui 
cing,  blasting  and  crushing,  scalping  or  being  scalped 
—  for  the  Arraphoes  make  a  dash  at  the  Utes  or  the 
whites,  now  and  then,  in  the  Middle  Park  —  but  we 
reck  nothing  of  it  all.  We  might  imagine  ourselves 
to  be  the  first  who  were  looking  on  the  fair  expanse, 
but  for  this  piece  of  "  The  New -York  Herald,"  and 
this  old  sardine-box,  left  by  a  former  party,  and  the 
minute  cluster  of  dots  in  one  of  those  far  canons, 
which  closer  inspection  reveals  to  be  the  town  of 
Montezurna. 

Northward,  infinite  variety  of  battlements,  spires, 
domes,  and  whatever  other  thing  you  choose  to  name, 
by  way  of  dwarfing  the  sublimity  you  cannot  de 
scribe;  innumerable  vistas -and  half-revelations;  Ir- 


THE  ASCENT  OF  GRAY'S  PEAK.       243 

win's  Peak  in  the  foreground,  looming  up  on  a  level 
with  us,  so  near,  apparently,  that  one  might  throw  a 
stone  to  its  lone  flagstaff  and  skeleton  of  a  tent ; 
Long's  Peak  closing  the  view  in  the  distance,  brown 
and  cloud-hung. 

Eastward,  another  turn  of  the  marvelous  kaleido 
scope,  and  a  new  combination  of  the  endless  beauties 
of  outline,  tint,  and  shade ;  and  beyond  all  ending 
and  blending  in  the  illimitable  sky,  the  vast  ocean  of 
the  Plains. 

Upward,  the  empty  heavens,  speaking  unutterable 
things  ;  and  everywhere  the  thin,  pure,  sweet  moun 
tain-air,  which  one  rather  drinks  than  breathes,  feel 
ing  the  while  that  intoxicating  combination  of  in 
spiring  stimulus  and  delicious  languor  which  nothing 
else  bestows. 

It  takes  a  good  while  to  go  up  to  Gray's  Peak ;  but 
mark  how  short  a  tale  shall  put  you  down.  A  climb 
for  descending  the  steep  summit,  leading  the  horses,  — 
a  brisk  ride,  with  gallops  interspersed,  down  the  val 
ley,  through  deepening  twilight —  and  at  last,  beneath 
the  glamour  of  a  full  white  moon  —  Georgetown  — 
Denver,  C.  P.  R.  R. 


it 


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